Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton appears to have violated federal ethics law in significant ways when filing recent disclosures of his assets and liabilities, creating confusion about his net worth and holdings, a review by ProPublica and The Texas Tribune found.

Among them: Paxton, the Republican nominee for U.S. Senate, reported owning seven homes but said he earned no income from any. Yet all but one was listed for rent during the reporting periods, and some current residents and neighbors at those addresses confirmed that the properties were rented, the news organizations found. Receiving income and not reporting it is a violation of federal disclosure law, three ethics experts said.

Additionally, Paxton did not disclose mortgages for three condos at a Utah golf resort that federal law requires him to list as liabilities if they are not personal residences.

He also valued his stake in a vacant plot of Texas land at up to $50,000 on last year’s filing, but his business partner told the newsrooms Paxton’s share for years has been worth about $1 million. Federal financial disclosure law requires property to be listed at fair market value.

The apparent errors and omissions the newsrooms found obscure the extent of Paxton’s income streams, assets and debt, making it difficult for voters to make sense of his finances as they mull whether to support him in November’s election, the ethics experts said.

“It reflects either pure sloppiness on Paxton’s part or a deliberate effort to conceal some of his investments and property holdings,” said Craig Holman, a government affairs lobbyist for the nonpartisan good-government group Public Citizen.

If Paxton wins, an incomplete picture of his finances could prevent watchdogs from evaluating his conflicts of interest as a senator, Holman and others said.

The apparent omissions are part of a pattern for Paxton. Over three terms as attorney general, he has withheld financial information that could explain how he became a multimillionaire and had the resources to purchase more than a dozen properties in five states. He began including many of these on his state disclosures only after the Texas Ethics Commission closed a loophole in 2024 that Paxton had cited to leave them off. Most were acquired while Paxton earned a government salary of $153,750.

In the new federal disclosure, filed in August after Paxton received a three-month extension, he reported a net worth between $1 million and $27 million. That is a significantly higher range than the negative $1.9 million to $11.1 million net worth he reported a year ago, before he had secured the Republican nomination but after he had declared his candidacy for federal office.

The spike was driven not by Paxton’s acquisition of more assets but because the reported value on several of his properties soared.

Paxton’s report omitted listing as assets seven properties worth about $5.2 million collectively, including the Utah condos for which he did not disclose mortgages. He co-owns all of his known real estate holdings with his estranged wife, state Sen. Angela Paxton, property records show. The eight he reported are held by their blind trust, which is managed by a family friend.

Federal rules do not require candidates to report as assets personal homes or properties from which they don’t earn money, even if the properties are worth millions.

At a time when voters feel anxious about their own personal finances and dislike the idea of politicians getting rich in office, it would be wise for Paxton to be more transparent about his wealth, said Texas ethics and campaign finance lawyer Andrew Cates.

“If it were me trying to get people’s vote, I would err on the side of transparency rather than not,” Cates said.

Paxton declined to be interviewed and did not answer detailed questions about how he filled out the disclosure forms. Madison Cercy, a spokesperson for his campaign, said Paxton “has had a long and successful career outside of public service, including running his own small business as a lawyer. Stirring up partisan allegations is nothing more than a bad attempt to manufacture controversy where none exists.”

Before being elected to the state Legislature in 2002, Paxton worked at a law firm in the Dallas area and was a corporate attorney for JCPenney. His state financial disclosure for 2001 listed assets totaling no more than $170,000, a ProPublica and Tribune analysis found.

By 2015, his household net worth had grown to $5.4 million, according to financial records lawmakers subpoenaed in 2023 after impeaching Paxton on charges that he took bribes in exchange for helping an Austin real estate investor.

The records, few of which were admitted into evidence during the 10-day Senate trial that resulted in his acquittal, document how Paxton built a diverse portfolio that included investments in a cellphone tower, an HVAC company, a cement supplier and a police body camera manufacturer. He netted $2.2 million when Motorola acquired the body camera firm in 2019, according to his income tax return from that year.

Shortly after, he went on a real estate buying spree, snapping up six properties in Oklahoma, Florida, Utah and Hawaii. His impeachment defense team said Paxton made a prudent shift toward real estate at a time of rock-bottom interest rates.

Questions about Paxton’s integrity have dogged him in the race for U.S. Senate. His opponent, Democratic state Rep. James Talarico, entered September with a narrow polling lead — uncharted territory in a state where Republicans have not lost a statewide race in 32 years.

A University of Texas/Texas Politics Project poll released last week found that just a third of respondents viewed Paxton as “honest and trustworthy.” The same day the statewide poll was published, a super PAC supporting Talarico hit the airwaves with an ad that labeled the attorney general as “the most corrupt politician in Texas.” The commercial included a reference to Paxton’s recently disclosed net worth.

Talarico’s net worth, according to his most recent personal financial disclosure, was between $67,000 and $305,000. The range changed little from the previous year. Like Paxton, Talarico did not include his single personal residence among his reported assets.

James Henson, director of the Texas Politics Project, said the questions surrounding Paxton’s latest financial disclosures reinforce a longstanding narrative that the attorney general is secretive about his finances and may have leveraged his public position for personal gain.

“It’s his choice how much he explains or doesn’t explain,” Henson said. “But I think that comes with a potential cost, and we’re seeing that in public opinion.”

Paxton’s pivot to real estate appears to be a way to supplement his salary as attorney general. The newsrooms found recent rental listings for six of the properties he disclosed but for which he said he derived no income: two homes in Ocala, Florida; a home and a condo in Austin; a home in College Station, Texas; and a vacation lodge in Broken Bow, Oklahoma.

A tenant confirmed to the newsrooms she’s living at one of Florida houses. At the Austin condo complex, a next-door neighbor said Paxton’s unit has a renter. And the five-bedroom, three-story Oklahoma lodge he owns is listed online as a short-term rental for up to $1,200 a night, with fall bookings filling up fast.

On his disclosure forms, which require real estate income to be reported, Paxton for each property selected the option “None (or less than $201).”

Federal law requires candidates who aren’t currently in Congress to report all loans exceeding $10,000, except those for personal residences. Paxton did not report three mortgages totaling $1.3 million for condos at the Black Desert Resort in southwest Utah, renowned for its world-class golf course. He purchased the properties in February; the reporting period for the most recent disclosure ran through mid-May.

Reporters found the mortgage documents in local land records. Each contains an addendum to the mortgage that is used for rental properties, said New Jersey real estate lawyer Daniel M. Shlufman. That addendum removes a requirement that the unit be owner-occupied and allows the lender to collect rent directly from tenants if Paxton were to default on the loan.

Paxton purchased another condo at the resort in 2025, which he disclosed on his most recent report as an asset and a liability. The land records show he obtained a $640,000 mortgage for it. The resort advertises a program in which it leases units purchased by investors, but it declined to say if Paxton’s properties were enrolled in it.

“It’s kind of mind-boggling to think about having four homes at one resort property and imagining those are for personal use,” said Cynthia Brown, a senior lawyer at the government watchdog Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington.

The most significant changes between Paxton’s 2025 and 2026 reports were the valuations of the Oklahoma lodge and a plot of land outside of Fort Worth, whose value he said had increased by millions of dollars.

He appears to have switched from reporting the properties’ assessed values, which are set by the local county, to the loftier estimates of what they would fetch on the open market.

Paxton’s initial use of the lowball values appears to defy federal rules aimed at bringing candidates’ disclosed property values in line with what they’re actually worth. While the Senate Ethics Committee instructs filers that they can use a recent tax assessment to set the worth of certain property, they must adjust it to market value if it is assessed below that. In these cases, valuations must be disclosed as a specific dollar figure rather than a range.

On both his annual reports as a Senate candidate, Paxton listed ranges for the value of each property he disclosed.

Last year, Paxton reported the Oklahoma lodge, just north of the Texas border, as worth between $100,001 and $250,000. The local county assesses the property at $176,000. Its estimated market value, meanwhile, is more than $1.5 million, according to real estate websites. This year, Paxton’s disclosure valued the property at between $1 million and $5 million.

Likewise, Paxton valued a 42-acre plot of undeveloped land in Johnson County, south of Fort Worth, at between $15,001 and $50,000 last year. The county assesses the property as farmland worth $20,008, but estimates its market value is $2.9 million. This year, Paxton’s disclosure said the property was worth between $1 million and $5 million.

Paxton bought the property in 2006 with a group of investors including Rob Orr, with whom he served in the Texas House of Representatives. Orr, who manages the investment, said in an interview that Paxton’s 20% stake is worth about $1 million.

“It would have been around a million for quite a while, probably the last four or five years,” Orr said. “It has increased in value because of zoning and because of time.”

The group bought the plot to hold onto, Orr said, until creeping growth from the Dallas-Fort Worth area made it attractive for redevelopment. He said the group is negotiating a sale to a developer. Last year, Orr persuaded the City Council in Burleson to rezone the land, which had been restricted to agriculture, to permit retail and housing.

Paxton’s move to significantly revalue his assets without explaining why is “very strange,” said Margaret Dylus-Yukins, senior counsel for ethics at the nonpartisan Campaign Legal Center, which advocates for strong disclosure rules. Dylus-Yukins, who worked for six years analyzing executive branch officials’ financial disclosures for the U.S. Office of Government Ethics, said the agency would ask filers to explain major changes in writing.

“When you have public officials that appear to be fudging the numbers on their disclosure forms, and the Senate Ethics Committee is letting that slide, then you’re not only eroding trust in the committee but the candidate himself,” Dylus-Yukins said, referring to the significant differences between the filings.

The ethics committee did not respond to requests for comment. Candidates or senators who willingly falsify financial disclosures can be fined up to $50,000 or prosecuted for making a false statement to the government, a felony. The committee rarely investigates senators and has not formally sanctioned a member in 19 years.

Candidates do not have to file any more federal financial disclosures before the November election.

The U.S. Army paid General Dynamics $533 million for an artillery factory that failed to produce a single usable shell.

Instead of efficient, state-of-the-art production lines, half a billion dollars in taxpayer funding paid for machines that kept failing in bizarre ways, former workers told ProPublica’s Jesse Coburn. Giant robot arms would catch fire. The Texas factory’s signature device often cracked the steel meant for the shells. And workers regularly had to take a sledgehammer to certain machines to try to make them function properly. But the machines still botched nearly every shell.

The boondoggle, which included a real-life dumpster fire, was described as an “absolute disaster,” by one former official who worked in an Army office overseeing the project. The official, like others interviewed for the story, spoke on the condition of anonymity.

In a detailed statement, the Army told ProPublica it exercises “rigorous oversight” and that, “where vendors fail to meet contract specifications” — as at the General Dynamics artillery factory — ”we are evaluating contract performance, seeking recoupment of funds, and pivoting resources.”

General Dynamics declined an interview request, but the company has said it “met or exceeded requirements,” according to a Department of Defense inspector general report. In a statement, a company spokesperson told ProPublica its reporting “fundamentally mischaracterizes the circumstances,” but did not respond to a request to specify our reporting’s alleged errors.

To chronicle what went wrong, Coburn interviewed 36 people who’ve worked for the Army, the Pentagon, General Dynamics and the White House, and he reviewed internal company documents as well as photos and video from inside the factory. Here are the lapses in planning and execution Coburn’s reporting uncovered — and some of the consequences of those mistakes.

The Red Flags

The Army awarded the project to General Dynamics in a rushed process despite significant unknowns.

When Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, the Biden administration rushed to boost production of artillery shells to support Ukraine’s war effort. General Dynamics was the only company producing the 155 mm metal shell bodies in the U.S. at that time, mainly in a century-old facility in Pennsylvania.

The company could have simply replicated the facility’s traditional manufacturing method, which dated back to the time of the Korean War, to ramp up production. But General Dynamics proposed using a state-of-the-art production line from Repkon, a Turkish company virtually unknown in American defense.

Repkon said other countries were already using its machinery to build an older, simpler model of the artillery shells. But it wasn’t clear the Turkish equipment could work with the particular steel used to make the Army’s newer model of 155 mm shells. And Repkon said the Army and General Dynamics could not inspect full artillery production lines in action, citing customer privacy.

Repkon did not respond to requests for comment.

The Department of Defense did not competitively bid the project.

The Army could’ve insisted that General Dynamics more fully demonstrate that Repkon’s machines could perform the desired work. But that would’ve taken time, and — as a former Army official told Coburn — “there was incredible pressure to go fast.”

In November 2022, the Army gave General Dynamics the first in a series of contract awards for the artillery factory. Then, Congress granted the Department of Defense the power to award money for Ukraine-related causes without some of the usual contracting safeguards meant to ensure taxpayer money doesn’t go to waste. That meant the Army could give General Dynamics no-bid awards and the company could start work on the project before finalizing the contract terms with the government.

The U.S. ended up ordering three Repkon production lines — instead of just one — without knowing for certain whether they could make shells that met the Army’s specifications. (The Army said it selected General Dynamics because of the company’s unique artillery production experience).

The Army did not thoroughly vet the proposal before approving it.

Both the Army and General Dynamics sent staffers to Turkey to inspect the Repkon machines. But they never inspected a full production line in action, and they didn’t send enough experts who could identify potential defects in Repkon’s equipment, four former General Dynamics and Army officials told ProPublica.

The Army also didn’t require General Dynamics to demonstrate it could use Repkon’s equipment to complete the entire production process and make shells that met the service’s specifications. (The Army said that “formal testing could not occur prior to full machinery installation.”)

In 2024, leaders from the Army and General Dynamics gathered in Texas to celebrate the factory’s opening. But the machines were barely functioning.

Here’s how the rushed planning from the Army and General Dynamics played out in the factory.

The Consequences

In Texas, robotic arms caught fire and smashed into equipment.

Twelve former factory workers told Coburn that problems quickly piled up inside the factory. Machines meant to begin giving the shells perfectly smooth noses would, instead, mangle them into swirls that looked like soft-serve ice cream.

The robotic arms had a tendency to swing out of control, smashing into things around the factory. Workers talked about the arms going “rogue.” Sometimes, a machine in the factory would be seen moving on its own, controlled remotely by someone in Turkey, spooking workers in the Texas factory.

Workers said smoke hung in the air inside the factory, and it’d reach desert-like temperatures when the furnaces or forging presses were on. Making matters worse, walls cracked, water flooded in when it rained and employees said the foundation of the buildings appeared to be shifting or sinking beneath them.

As progress at the artillery plant continued to stall, paranoia grew and rumors swirled among the American workers that the Turkish employees from Repkon might be purposefully sabotaging the machinery.

“It was astonishing how little progress we would make, month after month, year after year,” one former worker told ProPublica. “People started speculating, ‘I wonder if they’re spying on us.’” (The Army said it has no evidence of sabotage or spying.)

General Dynamics failed to meet a number of milestones at the facility, including failing to perform scheduled first article tests, which would’ve demonstrated the factory could produce shells that met the Army’s requirements.

The Army hasn’t required General Dynamics to pay the money back.

General Dynamics, one of the world’s largest defense contractors, and Repkon haven’t been held publicly accountable for the taxpayer-funded failure. The Army also hasn’t made General Dynamics pay back the money. (The service said it will recover funding from the project by getting unspecified discounts from General Dynamics on production orders.)

In August 2025, the Army halted work on two of the three production lines at the factory. But the Army didn’t unilaterally terminate the contract awards. In December 2025, the government paid the company $26.3 million in “progress payments” for two production lines — although the lines had never made a usable shell.

The Army says it won’t spend any more money on the artillery plant. But since the Army partially halted work at the factory last summer, the same unit of General Dynamics responsible for the struggling facility has won contract awards worth $2.5 billion, according to the Army. (The service said this was for “distinct production lines and critical national defense requirements” unrelated to the Texas factory.)

Having experienced the failure of a little-proven technology in its factory, General Dynamics has announced it will team up with yet another unheard-of partner promising technological innovation. The new solution? Artificial intelligence.

Read our full investigation here.

What Happened: Citing reporting by ProPublica, eight Democratic U.S. senators have criticized the Trump administration’s demands to access the health data of millions of people as a condition of giving lifesaving aid to other countries. In a letter to Secretary of State Marco Rubio, the senators, including minority leader Chuck Schumer, said the U.S. demands were “unprecedented and at odds with U.S. policy concerning the data of American citizens.”

The inquiry into the administration’s approach to foreign health data referred to a ProPublica story published in June about agreements the U.S. struck with African countries — and the risks they posed to people there. Experts told ProPublica that the deals are vague and lack language used in most data-sharing agreements to adequately limit what information is collected and how it can be used. As a result, they said, there is an increased risk that individuals’ personal data could be exposed, misused or commercialized without their consent.

The senators — who include Tim Kaine of Virginia; Chris Van Hollen of Maryland; Brian Schatz of Hawaii; Amy Klobuchar of Minnesota; Christopher Coons of Delaware; Jeff Merkley of Oregon and Raphael Warnock of Georgia, who led the effort — requested a briefing on the healthcare agreements’ data requirements. They also asked Rubio to respond in writing to a list of questions by the end of August.

What They Said: In the letter, which was sent last week, the senators expressed concern that the requirement to access foreign health data might reverberate beyond the countries where the aid agreements were struck and “set international precedents that ultimately harm Americans.” They noted that the demands for data appear to be at odds with the Trump administration’s National Cyber Strategy, which emphasizes the right to privacy for Americans and their data.

“These new demands set an alarming precedent that is seemingly contrary to the Administration’s longstanding support for the privacy of U.S. citizens’ data,” they wrote.

The senators also laid out the details of a data-sharing agreement between the U.S. and Uganda that were first reported by ProPublica. The deal demanded that Uganda provide the U.S. — and its contractors — with logins “or other secure access mechanisms” to directly enter the nation’s health data systems.

“While global health programs have historically included data sharing components,” the senators wrote, “they have never required direct access to privileged electronic systems for U.S. government representatives.”

The letter ends with more than a dozen questions for Rubio, including why the State Department has not made the health care agreements public, as federal law requires, and whether any of the data will be shared with “U.S.-based third parties for any commercial purpose, including to train any artificial intelligence models.”

The senators also asked what privacy rights foreign citizens will have over data that is transferred to the U.S. and how those rights will be enforced in the case of a data breach or another unethical use of their personal information.

Background: After the Trump administration dismantled the U.S. Agency for International Development and drastically reduced funding for international health work done by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Congress required the executive branch to continue providing foreign aid. The State Department has since faced the challenge of finding new ways to get the funding to countries, ensure that it was being spent wisely and address potential pandemics. The task has been especially challenging because the administration cut ties with most of the international partners and fired staff the government had previously relied on to carry out this complex work.

In the past, PEPFAR, the U.S. program that provides aid for treating and preventing HIV around the world, built its own systems to handle anonymized data, separate from foreign government health records. In contrast, the Ugandan agreement provides the U.S. with direct access to the government’s own health data systems.

Through separate agreements, the U.S. has also arranged for countries to provide it with specimens of pathogens that could cause pandemics, along with related information.

The effort to establish these new aid arrangements was led by Brad Smith, an entrepreneur who founded three healthcare companies, one of which sold for a reported $2.7 billion. Before joining the State Department, Smith led the government efficiency panel that would become the Department of Government Efficiency and oversaw some $67 billion in cuts to the Department of Health and Human Services.

The U.S. agreement with Uganda provides up to $1.7 billion in aid for HIV, tuberculosis and malaria, among other diseases. As a condition, the deal calls for the sharing of aggregated data with all personally identifiable information removed and specifies that the information should be used for delivering and auditing healthcare services. But experts told ProPublica that it is possible to reverse-engineer data that has been anonymized.

The shift in the approach to health data is part of the America First Global Health Strategy, which is intended to make America “more prosperous” and “promote American health innovations.” Rubio explained in September that under this new strategy, aid will be given “in a way that directly benefits the American people and directly promotes our national interest.”

Why It Matters: Privacy experts say that, if health data is mishandled under the agreements, it could have serious consequences. Revealing healthcare histories, including whether someone has had an abortion, a mental health condition, substance-use treatment or a sexually transmitted disease can be devastating anywhere. In Africa, research has shown it can lead to discrimination and violence.

In the age of artificial intelligence, health data has become especially valuable. But the agreements reviewed by ProPublica provide no guarantee that Africans subject to them will have a say in how their data is used or whether they would receive any potential financial benefits.

Response: The State Department declined to answer specific questions about the senators’ letter, saying that it does not respond to questions about congressional correspondence. In a statement sent to ProPublica, a State Department spokesperson defended the data requirements in the health agreements.

“Neither the U.S. government nor any private American companies receive or review any personally identifiable information (PII) under these data sharing agreements,” the statement said, going on to note that the new deals “share only the same kinds of aggregated, de-identified data that has been shared and used for years in the fight against HIV/AIDS, malaria, tuberculosis, and other diseases. All data sharing is consistent with each country’s laws and approvals.” The spokesperson also said no country has been coerced to sign the agreements with the U.S.

Texas Gov. Greg Abbott responded with fury after Corpus Christi officials announced in March that this Gulf Coast region of more than 500,000 people could face unprecedented restrictions as its water supply dried up.

The state had already committed over $750 million in low-interest loans to the city’s plans for a desalination plant, a project that would add 30 million gallons a day to the region’s water supply. But the project had gone nowhere.

“You know what they did? They squandered it, and then they changed their plan and then they were indecisive about what to do,” Abbott said of city officials in a heated response to a reporter’s question at an unrelated March press conference.

“What Corpus Christi leaders have to do is make a decision,” Abbott said. “We can only give them a little time more before the state of Texas has to take over and micromanage that city and run that city to make sure that every resident who goes to the water tap and turns it on, they are going to be getting water out of their faucet, not because of what local leaders are doing but because of what the state of Texas will do.”

Even as Abbott was demanding that Corpus Christi get its act together, another agency, whose entire board Abbott appoints, was also coming undone.

In late June, board members of the Nueces River Authority learned that funding for a desalination plant the agency hopes to build, separate from the city’s, is months from running out. Additionally, the agency was spending more than it was taking in, and other contracts that had kept the authority financially afloat had been canceled.

Although the river authority’s project is a critical part of efforts to expand the region’s water supply, so far, the governor hasn’t threatened to take over the agency’s day-to-day operations. He’s consistently placed the burden of responsibility on the NRA board.

But Abbott has previously demonstrated that he can use his authority to compel other agencies to act: In March, he instructed a different river authority not to reduce Corpus Christi’s water allocation from Lake Texana. He also had the state’s environmental agency waive regulations so the city could move groundwater from Nueces County, which includes Corpus Christi, to its water treatment plant.

As far back as October 2022, while he was campaigning for reelection, Abbott said in an interview with KRIS 6 News that the state was working with the city and Nueces County on a desalination plan. If the city did not pursue the project, “then the state of Texas will do it for them,” the governor said. But the state is not currently involved in the city’s desalination project.

The governor appoints all 21 members of the NRA’s board and designates its president. With a majority vote of the river authority board, Abbott also can remove any board member for inefficiency, neglect of duty or misconduct. He has no such control over the Corpus Christi City Council.

Political scientists and water policy researchers who reviewed the situation told KRIS 6 News that Abbott’s decision to pressure Corpus Christi while leaving the NRA to address its problems largely on its own reflects a selective use of power. While recent rains have helped delay, though not prevent, an immediate water emergency for Corpus Christi, experts say the region still needs to develop new infrastructure projects to secure its long-term water supply.

Should water supplies drop below certain levels, Corpus Christi residents and businesses — including oil refineries and petrochemical plans — would be required to cut water use by 25 % under the city’s current Level 1 water emergency plan. Households would be capped at using 6,000 gallons of water per month, landscape watering would be banned and there would be surcharges imposed on those who exceed their allotments.

“The city of Corpus Christi needs a lot of help, it doesn’t need threats, and the Nueces River Authority is in way over its head,” said Cal Jillson, a political science professor at Southern Methodist University. “The water crisis in Corpus Christi and beyond in Southeast Texas is serious, and it’s not clear that anyone has the breadth of authority and resources to deal with it.”

What Power Does Abbott Have?

The public troubles for the NRA bubbled up as far back as March, when the agency’s then-chief operating officer sent a letter to board members accusing Executive Director John Byrum of making “materially inaccurate” statements about the authority’s finances related to the planned desalination project.

KRIS 6 reached out to the governor’s office in the spring about the accusations.

“Every member of a Texas board or commission should uphold the highest standards of integrity, transparency, and accountability in service of the people of Texas,” Abbott press secretary Andrew Mahaleris wrote in a statement. “Governor Abbott expects a thorough investigation into the allegations brought forth and for the Board to act swiftly once the investigation is complete.”

The board eventually cleared Byrum of “intentional wrongdoing,” but the NRA declined to release a copy of the investigation to KRIS 6 in response to a public information request; the Texas office of the attorney general has not yet ruled on whether the report can be withheld. The news organization asked the governor’s office for his response to the investigation and the board’s decision, but he did not respond.

The river authority’s unstable finances became even more apparent at a board meeting in late June, when the agency’s chief financial officer confirmed the NRA could be out of money for the desalination project by the end of August if certain contracts didn’t materialize. Since then, three of the agency’s desalination contracts, which the authority was depending on to stay afloat, expired and have not yet been renewed. KRIS 6 News asked the governor’s office whether it was aware of the agency’s continuing problems. Mahaleris again referred the news organization back to board members.

“The NRA Board oversees the agency’s operations and finances,” Mahaleris wrote June 27. “The Governor appoints board members to the state’s water authorities but does not manage their day-to-day operations. …The Governor expects accountability from appointed boards.”

While Abbott has no direct legal authority over the NRA’s policy decisions, he can use the power of his office to publicly pressure them, Ron Beal, a retired Baylor University School of Law professor whose work on Texas administrative procedure has been routinely cited by the Texas Supreme Court, wrote in a response to KRIS 6 News.

“He can say that when each member’s term ends, if the water project is not on its way, they will absolutely NOT be re-appointed to the job!” Beal wrote. “In other words, he cannot force them legally to follow his orders, but there is no doubt he has the bully pulpit and if anyone can pressure everyone to work together NOW and get it done ASAP, it is the Governor!!!!”

In a written statement to KRIS 6 News for this story, Abbott again placed responsibility on both the Corpus Christi City Council and the NRA board but did not address most of the specific questions asked.

“Despite the temporary reprieve granted by recent rain, the Governor’s expectations for the region have not changed. … The Corpus Christi City Council created this crisis through repeated failure to act on desalination,” Mahaleris wrote. “The Council remains responsible for securing reliable water for their citizens. The Nueces River Authority Board is responsible for the agency’s finances” and the desalination project.

The governor’s office did not answer questions about whether Abbott has taken steps to coordinate among the city, the NRA and other stakeholders, or about what “accountability from appointed boards” looks like in practice.

Even as the governor’s office has publicly distanced itself from the NRA’s operations, it has fought to keep from releasing its own communications with the river authority’s leadership.

KRIS 6 News filed a public information request on July 2 seeking emails, text messages, meeting notes and correspondence between the governor and members of his staff and Byrum, the NRA executive director, and NRA board President Eric Burnett. The request covered the river authority’s desalination project and any state funding, grants or loan guarantees related to those efforts.

The governor’s office confirmed on July 17 that it had records that met the parameters of the request. It did not release them. Instead, the office asked the attorney general’s office for permission to withhold the documents. The office argued that the records relate to a proposed water facility project for which state funding may be sought and that releasing them would “seriously disadvantage Texas,” but did not explain how. Abbott’s office also said the records reflect policy advice between the governor’s office and representatives of another state agency; this type of communication can sometimes be withheld under the state’s public information law.

The river authority has struggled to keep up with the demands of the desalination project, which is estimated to cost $6.4 billion. Design work on the pipeline that’s supposed to deliver the desalinated water stalled because the river authority hasn’t offered the company building it a new contract. Byrum, the executive director, has claimed President Donald Trump promised funding for the project, but the river authority has never actually made a formal request to the White House.

Jillson pointed to a fundamental mismatch between the NRA and the scale of the desalination project it’s trying to complete. The NRA staff is small, with an annual budget of up to about $5 million. It’s governed by unpaid, part-time board members who historically meet quarterly to provide broad direction.

He said the governor should direct someone in his office to determine whether the NRA has the personnel and expertise to execute a project of this scale and, if it doesn’t, to act on that finding. Without that kind of direct link between the governor’s office and the agency, Jillson said, “what you’re saying is, ‘We expect these guys to oversee themselves.’”

Byrum wrote in a response to KRIS 6 News that the authority “has the experience to oversee” the project and the option to hire additional staff if required.

The river authority did recently secure one large contract for the project: In May, the NRA selected Israel-based IDE Technologies as its development partner for the desalination plant.

Abbott toured a desalination facility in Israel run by IDE in January 2016. At the time, IDE said Abbott “expressed his intention to partner with Israeli technology companies such as IDE to develop and deploy water solutions for Texas,” as reported by Wastewater Digest.

KRIS 6 News asked if the governor, or anyone in his office, was involved in the NRA’s selection of IDE.

Byrum wrote that the “Governor’s office was not involved.” KRIS 6 News asked the governor the same question, but his spokesperson did not respond.

The Takeover Question

Abbott has a record of curbing the power of Texas cities like Corpus Christi to govern themselves. In 2015, he signed a bill that overrode a voter-approved fracking ban in Denton in North Texas and blocked cities from banning or restricting oil and gas drilling. In 2023, he signed the so-called “Death Star” bill, which preempted city authority over eight policy areas, including labor, natural resources, insurance and property.

Republican state Rep. Denise Villalobos, who represents the Corpus Christi region, previously told KRIS 6 that Abbott directed her to draft a bill that would create a state-level water infrastructure authority, something she compared to the state’s highway department.

If adopted by the Legislature when it meets next year, such an authority would take many decisions about future water supplies away from locals.

Villalobos did not comment for this story. Abbott’s office did not answer questions about the proposed legislation.

Corpus Christi City Manager Peter Zanoni told KRIS 6 this summer that his office had looked into how a takeover would work and found no examples in Texas of the state stepping in to run a water operation or water corporation. The closest parallel, he said, is the state’s ability to take over ailing school districts.

Abbott’s threat to take over Corpus Christi’s desalination project runs into other unsettled legal territory the governor’s office has not addressed publicly, said Gabriel Collins, a lawyer and research fellow at Rice University’s Baker Institute for Public Policy who studies water and energy policy.

Under Texas law, surface water, meaning rivers and lakes, is public property, giving the state a clear line of authority. Water pumped from the ground is considered private property, belonging to the person who owns the land above it, and is regulated locally.

Desalinated seawater fits into neither category. Collins said a legal case could theoretically be made that water drawn from within 3 miles of shore falls under state jurisdiction, but he said he isn’t aware of anyone making that argument in this context.

“That would be a massive shift in water policy in the state of Texas,” Collins said.

But the legal question may be less important than a practical one, Collins said. Would a state takeover of Corpus Christi water regulators, even if it could be done, actually make a difference?

“Or would you be better off resolving those fundamental problems by having the state be a catalyst and a facilitator financially that helps the local political authorities solve a problem?” Collins said.

Last October, President Donald Trump nominated nursing home owner Benjamin Landa as his next ambassador to Hungary, a key position that would place him in a country with a vigorous conservative movement. Trump has endorsed the country’s prime minister, Viktor Orbán, a long-standing ally, for reelection, saying he “does an unbelievable job.”

One month after Landa’s appointment, the inspector general of Trump’s Department of Health and Human Services issued a blunt audit estimating that a nursing home Landa co-owns received Medicare overpayments of at least $31.2 million and recommending that the government recoup the money.

Now that facility, Pinnacle Multicare Nursing and Rehabilitation Center, is suing the very administration that is nominating Landa to the diplomatic post. The suit, filed Feb. 26 in federal district court in New York, asks the court to stop the government’s collection efforts and names HHS Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services Administrator Mehmet Oz, HHS Inspector General Thomas March Bell and a Medicare contractor as defendants. A federal district judge denied Pinnacle’s request for a temporary restraining order.

As of March, Landa has an ownership interest in more than 100 nursing homes in eight states, CMS data shows. Landa also is a donor to Republican causes, but his biggest donation by far was $5 million to MAGA Inc., a pro-Trump Super PAC, in August 2025, two months before his nomination.

Critics of Landa’s track record point to the audit’s findings, along with other legal actions against homes connected to him, as reasons that his nomination should face additional scrutiny.

Sen. Ron Wyden, an Oregon Democrat and ranking member of the Senate Finance Committee, which oversees Medicare and Medicaid, described Landa as an example of “giant corporate health care interests that prey on the vulnerable and use clever tricks to exploit loopholes at taxpayers’ expense.”

“It’s no surprise that these companies and their owners are cozy with Trump: instead of accountability, they’ve been rewarded,” Wyden said in a statement, with “plum political appointments and ambassadorships in Europe.”

The White House and the Department of State did not respond to requests for comment about the status of Landa’s nomination. An attorney for Landa denied wrongdoing in a statement, saying the issues identified in the audit occurred during the COVID-19 pandemic when nursing homes were in the midst of a crisis.

“At Pinnacle MultiCare, patient care comes first — period, full stop,” attorney Alyssa Friedman wrote in an email to ProPublica. “That commitment drove every decision during the pandemic and continues to define operations today.

“Let’s be clear: this is about decisive actions taken during the height of COVID-19 that prioritized patients and saved lives in one of the pandemic’s epicenters — decisions now being second-guessed years later through an absurdly flawed audit of billing paperwork and a retroactive reinterpretation of the rules by government bureaucrats,” she added.

The inspector general’s audit and the resulting lawsuit are the latest controversy involving Landa.

In November 2022, New York Attorney General Letitia James sued The Villages at Orleans Health and Rehabilitation Center, as well as Landa and others she said were owners of the facility. A press release announcing the suit alleged “years of financial fraud that resulted in significant resident neglect and harm.” Between 2015 and 2022, Landa made at least $1.49 million from the facility, James’ suit alleged, through means that James characterized as “looting.” Meanwhile, Landa “contributed nothing and failed to prevent the abuse and neglect,” the suit alleged. James described a pattern of harm to residents at the home, due in part to what the suit said was “systemic understaffing and cost cutting,” which included potentially preventable deaths of residents due to delayed wound care and suicide.

The home and the defendants named as owners have disputed the suit. In 2024, a state Supreme Court judge allowed multiple claims in the case to proceed; in 2025, Landa appealed that decision. The case is ongoing.

Landa’s attorney said her client “merely owned a minority interest in the company that owned the real estate and served as the landlord of the building out of which the facility operated. He had no interest in the licensed operator of the facility and no involvement in the operations of the facility. The attorney general’s claims against Mr. Landa are baseless and a waste of the court’s time and taxpayer dollars.”

One month after filing the suit against The Villages, James sued Cold Spring Hills Center for Nursing and Rehabilitation, based in Long Island, making nearly identical claims to her prior suit. Landa owned 25% of the facility’s property holding company, according to the lawsuit. Over a number of years, the facility paid over $15 million in rent to the property holding company co-owned by Landa; over $1.4 million to a management company co-owned by Landa; and almost $500,000 in consulting fees to a company owned by Landa, the lawsuit alleged. At the same time, residents were losing significant weight and developing malnutrition, enduring life-threatening pressure ulcers and repeatedly suffering unwitnessed falls, in part due to understaffing, James alleged.

The home and its owners disputed the allegations. In March 2024, a judge in Long Island ordered four defendants, including Landa, to pay a total of $2 million back to the nursing home, and ordered that an independent health care monitor be appointed to run the facility. Landa and his co-defendants have appealed various orders in the case. In January 2025, Cold Spring Hills filed for bankruptcy; in March 2025, the facility sold itself for $10 to a third-party receiver and changed its name. (“Our facility is now under new ownership with a renewed vision for excellence,” the nursing home’s rebranded website reads. “A new chapter in compassionate care has begun.”) The appeals and bankruptcy proceedings are ongoing.

Landa’s attorney said he was merely a landlord of Cold Spring Hills and was not involved in operating the facility. She noted that the judge found no fraud committed by Landa, that all business arrangements between Landa and the home were approved by the state health department, and that none of the defendants enriched themselves at the expense of patient care.

Landa has been involved with other legal actions related to his nursing homes. In 2017, for example, an employment agency co-owned by Landa was sued on behalf of a class of Filipino nurses alleging that it had trafficked them, withheld wages, and threatened civil and criminal litigation should the nurses leave. In September 2019, a New York district court found the agency and its owners had violated the Trafficking Victims Protection Act; in April 2022, the case was settled for $3 million on the condition that the findings involving trafficking were vacated. Landa’s attorney did not respond to follow-up questions about the other suits in which he has been involved.

In one of her 2022 lawsuits, James estimated Landa’s net worth at more than $300 million in 2016.

The audit at the center of the current lawsuit was the government’s first related to a new nursing home payment system rolled out during Trump’s first term. Under the previous system, nursing homes were reimbursed based on the number of minutes of therapy provided to patients, which “created financial incentives” for them to focus on patients who needed therapy, according to the November audit report. In contrast, the new payment system was designed to “improve payment accuracy and appropriateness by focusing on the enrollee, rather than volume of services provided,” according to the report.

The inspector general’s office found that Pinnacle, located in the Bronx, received significantly higher reimbursements from Medicare under the new payment system than the old one, raising red flags at the agency.

The inspector general found that Pinnacle had violated CMS billing requirements in 99 of the 100 claims it audited. The agency noted that, in 95 of those 99 claims, Pinnacle requested reimbursement for levels of services that were higher than what was justifiable when the agency reviewed patients’ charts — for example, billing for speech therapy for aphasia in a patient who clinicians had explicitly stated did not need speech therapy. Additionally, in 54 of the 99 claims, the agency found, Pinnacle provided services that could not be justified by the patients’ charts — for example, billing for “bed mobility and wheelchair training” for patients who were able to walk on their own.

The HHS inspector general’s office declined to comment on the audit, citing pending litigation.

Separately, the New York State Department of Health has imposed three financial penalties against Pinnacle since 2021.

In its lawsuit, Pinnacle alleges that the auditors “blatantly ignore” state and federal waivers for documentation and billing requirements issued as part of the effort to reduce administrative barriers to patient care during the COVID-19 public health emergency. “Pinnacle’s efforts to provide exceptional care to its patients were an undeniable success,” the facility wrote in the lawsuit.

Additionally, the facility only had two COVID-19 deaths at the height of the pandemic — “one of the lowest COVID related death totals among New York nursing homes despite being a 480-bed facility located in one of the most heavily affected areas,” Landa’s attorney said. “The outcomes during that period are the most important measure of care,” she added.

In its suit, Pinnacle characterized the government’s demand for repayment as an “administrative process riddled with constitutional violations.” That request “would immediately paralyze Pinnacle by rendering it unable to pay its employees,” the facility added, “and would result in the shut down of the entire nursing facility — leaving highly vulnerable patients without life-saving care, depriving hundreds of individuals of jobs and income, and divesting New York City of this critical medical facility.”

Industry watchdogs say threatening closure in response to state or federal enforcement actions is a familiar ploy for nursing home owners.

“That’s their constant refrain whenever they don’t get what they want,” said Kevin Walsh, former New Jersey comptroller who investigated tens of millions of dollars in nursing home fraud during his tenure.

“The risk of closure based on the finances and cost reports that I’ve seen seems low,” Walsh added. “They’re not going to kill the golden goose they’re using to siphon profits.”

Landa has repeatedly filed lawsuits in response to allegations against nursing homes with which he is affiliated. In 2022, he brought a suit for libel against The American Prospect, as well as one of its reporters and an editor, following an investigation titled “The Nursing Home Slumlord Manifesto.” Years earlier, he sued freelancers writing for ProPublica, also alleging defamation. Judges dismissed both cases.

Landa’s nomination remains under consideration by the Senate Foreign Relations committee. (No hearing has been scheduled.) But if confirmed as ambassador to Hungary, Landa would hold a powerful position.

Hungary, despite its small population and historically minor role in U.S. foreign policy, holds increasing symbolic importance in the global conservative movement.

In a mid-February visit to Budapest, Trump administration officials reinforced their support for Orban. Secretary of State Marco Rubio signed an agreement to nurture Hungary’s civilian nuclear program. (The country does not presently have nuclear weapons, according to the World Nuclear Association, an international organization that publishes reports on global nuclear activity.)

“We are entering this golden era of relations between our countries,” Rubio said in a press conference in Budapest, “not simply because of the alignment of our people, but because of the relationship that you have with the president of the United States.”

The two federal immigration agents who fired on Minneapolis protester Alex Pretti are identified in government records as Border Patrol agent Jesus Ochoa and Customs and Border Protection officer Raymundo Gutierrez.

The records viewed by ProPublica list Ochoa, 43, and Gutierrez, 35, as the shooters during the deadly encounter last weekend that left Pretti dead and ignited massive protests and calls for criminal investigations.

Both men were assigned to Operation Metro Surge, an immigration enforcement dragnet launched in December that sent scores of armed and masked agents across the city.

CBP, which employs both men, has so far refused to release their names and has disclosed few other facts about the deadly incident, which came days after a different immigration agent shot and killed another Minneapolis protester, a 37-year-old mother of three named Renee Good.

Pretti’s killing, and the subsequent secrecy surrounding the agents involved, comes as the country confronts the consequences of President Donald Trump’s aggressive immigration crackdown. The sweeps in cities across the country have been marked by scenes of violence, against immigrants and U.S. citizens, by agents allowed to hide their identities with masks — an almost unheard of practice in law enforcement. As a result, the public has been kept from one of the chief ways it has to hold officers involved in such altercations accountable: their identity.

Both Democratic and Republican lawmakers have called for a transparent investigation into the killing of Pretti, a 37-year-old intensive care unit nurse working at a Department of Veterans Affairs hospital.

“We must have a transparent, independent investigation into the Minnesota shooting, and those responsible—no matter their title—must be held accountable,” Republican Sen. John Curtis of Utah wrote on X on Monday.

The agency sent a notice to some members of Congress on Tuesday acknowledging that two agents fired Glock pistols during the altercation that left Pretti dead. That notice does not include the agents’ names. A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security, which oversees CBP, said the agents had been placed on leave after the Jan. 24 shooting. And after a week of protests and calls from lawmakers for a review, the Justice Department said Friday that its Civil Rights Division is investigating the shooting. A DOJ spokesperson did not answer questions, including whether DHS has shared materials, such as body-camera footage, with its investigators.

Ochoa is a Border Patrol agent who joined CBP in 2018. Gutierrez joined in 2014 and works for CBP’s Office of Field Operations. He is assigned to a special response team, which conducts high-risk operations like those of police SWAT units. Records show both men are from South Texas.

In the aftermath of the shooting, Gregory Bovino, who has orchestrated high-intensity immigration sweeps and arrests in a string of Democratic-led cities since early 2025, was removed from his role as Border Patrol commander at large and reassigned to his former post in El Centro, California.

A spokesperson for DHS declined to answer questions about the two agents and referred ProPublica to the FBI. The FBI declined to comment. ProPublica made several attempts to call Ochoa and Gutierrez but neither answered.

Ochoa, who goes by Jesse, graduated from the University of Texas-Pan American with a degree in criminal justice, according to his ex-wife, Angelica Ochoa. A longtime resident of the Rio Grande Valley, Ochoa had for years dreamed of working for the Border Patrol and finally landed a job there, she said. By the time the couple split in 2021, he had become a gun enthusiast with about 25 rifles, pistols and shotguns, Angelica Ochoa said.

DHS’ disclosure to Congress was drawn from an internal review of the agents’ body-camera footage, which has not been released to the public. State investigators, meanwhile, have accused their federal counterparts of blocking them from investigating the shooting.

“We don’t have any information on the shooters,” a Minneapolis city spokesperson said. A spokesperson for Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz said Tuesday that his office also had “not been given the names, and we don’t have any new information on the investigation.”

Democrats on the House Judiciary Committee, in a letter to Attorney General Pam Bondi Monday, accused the Justice Department of covering up evidence in both Pretti’s and Good’s killings.

“DOJ has also blocked prosecutors and agents from cooperating with state law enforcement officials and prevented state officials from accessing evidence,” the letter said.

Maryland Rep. Jamie Raskin, the top Democrat on the House Judiciary Committee, told CNN on Sunday that immigration agents should not be masked.

“They should not be anonymous. They should be identifiable. And they have to have rules of engagement that don’t allow them to terrorize and intimidate, harass and assault U.S. citizens and other people,” he said.

The notice to Congress said that the shooting happened when Pretti resisted arrest after officers were unable to get him and a female protester out of the street.

The CBP officer “attempted to move the woman and Pretti out of the roadway. The woman and Pretti did not move,” the report reads. “CBP personnel attempted to take Pretti into custody. Pretti resisted CBP personnel’s efforts and a struggle ensued.”

According to the report, one agent then yelled “He’s got a gun!” multiple times, and two others “discharged” their Glock pistols.

In videos widely shared online, Pretti can be seen holding up a phone, documenting the movements of federal agents and officers as they roamed the streets of a popular food and arts district. According to news reports, Pretti was concerned about the increasingly volatile siege of the city by federal agents.

In the videos, a masked agent appears to knock a woman to the ground. Pretti comes to her aid, getting between them, at which point the officer deploys pepper spray at his face. Two agents then grab Pretti and pull him to the ground, while more federal personnel pile on. During the struggle, the agents unleash a series of shots — approximately 10 — as onlookers scream.

Pretti was armed at the time of the encounter with a legally owned handgun, according to state and federal officials. Some analyses of bystander video appear to show a federal agent taking Pretti’s gun from his hip before the first shots were fired. The agents’ masks and the chaos of the altercation make it difficult to differentiate one from another.

Those videos appear to contradict the claims by Bovino and other officials, including DHS Secretary Kristi Noem, that Pretti had come to attack agents.

“The agents attempted to disarm the individual, but he violently resisted,” Bovino said in a Jan. 25 news conference. “Fearing for his life and the lives and safety of fellow officers, a Border Patrol agent fired defensive shots.”

In the initial aftermath, Stephen Miller, a top Trump aide and a leading force behind the immigration enforcement operations, called Pretti “a would-be assassin.” But Miller changed tack later in the week when he said in a statement that CBP officers “may not have been following” protocol related to confronting bystanders.

Additional video has surfaced showing Pretti in another altercation with federal agents 11 days before he was killed. The video shows Pretti yelling at the agents, who get in an SUV and start to drive away. Pretti then kicks out the taillight of the vehicle and the agents, who wore protective masks, jump out and tackle him to the ground.

It is unclear if any of the same agents were involved in both incidents.

Lauren Bonds, executive director of the National Police Accountability Project, said that many local and state police departments are “much more transparent” than CBP when officers shoot people. “More and more police departments are choosing to release bodycam footage or dashcam footage within a couple of days.”

Gil Kerlikowske, a former CBP commissioner, told ProPublica that it’s difficult to draw conclusions from the chaos in bystander videos. Still, he said, the shooting might have been prevented. Pretti’s attempt to help the woman knocked to the ground could have been seen as interfering with federal law enforcement, he said. But the decision by the officers to immediately use pepper spray created a chaotic scene that likely contributed to Pretti’s death.

“The other agent could have said ‘don’t interfere’ or ‘stand back,’” Kerlikowske said. “Rather than move immediately to pepper spray, you can arrest the person.” It’s part of a pattern, he said, of federal officers jumping straight to use of force in situations that could have been de-escalated but instead create danger for both agents and their targets.

Pretti’s death, and the federal government’s characterization of the event, sparked immediate protests, spurring thousands of people to go out into frigid conditions in Minneapolis and other American cities. The shooting has also drawn intense criticism from political leaders, including Walz, who has promised his state’s law enforcement will conduct its own criminal investigation.

Dr. Kirk Moore had been on trial for five days, accused of falsifying COVID-19 vaccination cards and throwing away the government-supplied doses.

The Utah plastic surgeon faced up to 35 years in prison if the jury found him guilty on charges that included conspiracy to defraud the United States. Testimony had paused for the weekend when Moore’s lawyer called him early one Saturday this July with what felt to him like unbelievable news.

U.S. Attorney General Pam Bondi had ordered Utah prosecutors to drop all charges, abruptly ending his two-and-a-half year court battle.

“I just literally collapsed to the floor, and tears rolling down my face,” Moore recalled in a recent interview.

Bondi’s announcement marked a striking reversal of how the federal government handled the prosecution of COVID-19-related fraud under President Joe Biden. It has since emboldened other medical professionals who were similarly charged to consider seeking reexaminations of their cases. And it signaled the increasing clout of doctors and politicians who champion what they call “medical freedom,” which rejects modern public health interventions such as vaccine requirements in favor of individual choice.

Dismissed by the medical establishment, this movement has nevertheless built momentum as distrust in government and medical systems grew after the coronavirus pandemic. It has also gained new influence in Washington, where longtime vaccine critic Robert F. Kennedy Jr. oversees the nation’s health agencies. As President Donald Trump’s Health and Human Services secretary, Kennedy has replaced members of a federal vaccine advisory panel with his own picks and pushed the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to restrict access to some vaccines, including the coronavirus shot. The Trump administration’s evisceration of long-standing federal vaccine guidelines and rejection of scientific evidence have alarmed the American Medical Association and other professional medical groups.

Just days before Bondi’s decision, a federal prosecutor from her department had stood before the jury in Moore’s case and accused him of enrolling in the federal government’s COVID-19 vaccine distribution program in order to “sabotage” it, according to a court transcript. She had asked jurors to convict him and to “find that no one is above the law, not even a plastic surgeon.”

Moore said he’d signed up for the program in May 2021 to receive more than 2,000 free vaccine doses and accompanying proof-of-vaccination cards after some businesses, nursing homes and the military began requiring such proof for visitors and employees. He said his plan was always to give vaccine cards without providing the shots because he wanted to offer patients a choice to circumvent vaccine mandates.

Bondi explained her decision to dismiss the charges on X later that morning, writing that “Dr. Moore gave his patients a choice when the federal government refused to do so. He did not deserve the years in prison he was facing. It ends today.”

A spokesperson for Bondi declined to comment beyond what the attorney general posted on social media. The Utah federal attorney’s office did not respond to requests for comment.

Moore was one of at least 12 health care professionals charged after giving or selling fraudulent COVID-19 vaccine cards since 2021, according to cases identified by The Salt Lake Tribune and ProPublica through government news releases and media clips. Those charged include midwives, nurses, pharmacists and another surgeon. Eight were charged in federal court by the Biden administration; prosecutors from California, New York and New Jersey brought state charges against four others.

Other than Moore, only one of these health care workers went to trial: a Chicago pharmacist whom a jury found guilty of selling on eBay blank vaccine cards that he had stolen from the Walgreens where he worked. The rest pleaded guilty and were sentenced to a mix of probation, home arrest and, in a few cases, prison. Many also were professionally disciplined with fines or suspension of their medical licenses.

Of those 11, the Chicago pharmacist appealed his conviction but the U.S. Supreme Court in November declined to hear his petition; his attorney told The Tribune and ProPublica that they are exploring a presidential pardon. One other health care worker said she, too, would like to be pardoned by Trump.

Some of these health care workers, along with those in other professions who were also convicted of vaccine card fraud, started a group called Covicted Patriot following the dismissal of Moore’s case.

“There are more of us than Dr. Moore,” they declared in July through an X account that bills itself as representing “Justified Felons & Persecuted Patriots who were victimized by a politically weaponized justice system for providing covid cards.”

“We celebrate his vindication as we pray for our own,” they wrote.

Moore said he supports their efforts: “I think anybody who took the same stance that I did, in large measures, should be pardoned.”

Brian Dean Abramson, an immunization law expert in Virginia who serves on the board of directors for the National Vaccine Law Conference, said that medical workers falsifying vaccination cards is “absolutely horrifying” from a public health perspective. Their actions, he said, fuel distrust of the medical profession and create blind spots in disease surveillance and response, increasing the likelihood and severity of outbreaks. (A simulation model published in JAMA in April predicts a reemergence of diseases that had been eliminated in the United States, such as measles, and accompanying deaths as a result of declining childhood vaccination.)

“This undermines every layer of the system that protects us from infectious disease,” Abramson said. “Vaccination policy relies on accurate records and honest medical participation.”

“Everybody Got What They Wanted”

Moore met with The Tribune and ProPublica in his clinic in the Salt Lake City suburb of Midvale. A neat row of clogs, his preferred footwear, lined one wall of his cluttered office. The 60-year-old physician wore black scrubs and a “Trump 2024” rubber bracelet stacked atop a gold chain.

Moore, a licensed physician in Utah since 2005, doesn’t deny the government’s claims: that he gave falsified vaccine cards to patients, that his staff threw away doses, and that, in some cases, he gave children saline shots instead of the COVID-19 vaccine at their parents’ request.

“All of that stuff is true,” he said.

In an interview that lasted nearly two hours, Moore said choosing whether to get vaccinated is deeply personal and the decision should be made between patients and their doctors — not mandated by government or businesses. The Trump administration has similarly framed vaccination as a personal choice in its dismissal of established public health guidance.

Moore referred to COVID-19 vaccines as “bioweapons” a dozen times and said he distrusts how quickly the government facilitated the vaccines’ rapid development and distribution. He said he concluded the vaccines were unsafe after conducting his own online research that he said cast doubt on the medical technology used in their development and the amount of testing before the first doses became available under emergency use authorization in December 2020.

The COVID-19 vaccine was developed in record time during Trump’s first term, less than a year after federal authorities declared a public health emergency — a feat Trump touted at the time as a “monumental national achievement.” This was made possible by a federal effort known as Operation Warp Speed that reduced bureaucracy and invested in clinical trials and manufacturing, according to a 2021 report by the Government Accountability Office — not due to any shortcuts in testing. The technological backbone of the vaccines, known as mRNA, has been in development for decades by scientists who won the 2023 Nobel Prize in medicine.

Moore said that the vaccines “failed in every animal test.” “All the animals died, and now all of a sudden, we’re going to use the human population as our guinea pigs,” he said. The Food and Drug Administration has previously told reporters that such claims, widely promoted among vaccine skeptics during the pandemic, are false.

The plastic surgeon said that he believes all vaccines are “poison” and that they have not been adequately tested — a view he says he has held for more than two decades.

Vaccines approved by the FDA and recommended by the CDC have been proven to protect public health by preventing disease, serious illness or death. Major health authorities like the World Health Organization have affirmed the safety and efficacy of the COVID-19 vaccines, which researchers estimate prevented more than 14 million deaths worldwide in their first year.

Prior to signing up for the CDC’s vaccine distribution program, Moore did not provide vaccines in his business, the Plastic Surgery Institute of Utah. The “bread and butter” of his practice, he said, is a method of “rapid recovery” breast augmentations that he says he developed, which allows patients to return to their routines with little downtime.

“They were looking for anybody and everybody to get these bioweapons out,” he said about joining the government program, which was open to all health care providers who agreed to comply with the CDC processes, such as storing the vaccines at a certain temperature and recording who had been vaccinated. “And so, it was a pretty simple process.”

In December 2021, a husband-and-wife couple who Moore had met through a mutual acquaintance came to his home for dinner, according to a prosecution trial brief. “While they were there, Dr. Moore personally handed them both pre-completed CDC COVID-19 vaccination record cards with their names and birth dates on them, falsely purporting to show that the couple had received COVID-19 vaccines from the Plastic Surgery Institute,” the brief said. “Dr. Moore did so knowing that neither of them had been vaccinated for COVID-19, and without administering a COVID-19 vaccine to either of them.”

Within weeks, prosecutors said, Moore had started handing out fake vaccine cards in his medical office to anyone who was referred to his business by people who had already received a falsified card.

As word spread, Moore’s employees suggested patients who wanted a card could donate $50 via Venmo to a local health freedom advocacy group called the Health Independence Alliance, according to Moore. The husband of the couple to whom Moore first gave the fake vaccine cards testified at the Utah Legislature in January on behalf of the Health Independence Alliance on a vaccine-related bill. Moore says that he supports the group but does not run it; the Health Independence Alliance declined to comment in response to a request sent to the email listed on its website. The couple, who were not charged, declined to comment.

When sending their donation, patients were told to include an emoji of an orange in the Venmo subject line, according to federal prosecutors, and they were also instructed to bring an orange with them to the waiting room of the clinic. “At one point, there was a large basket full of oranges” at Moore’s clinic, prosecutors said in their trial brief.

Moore confirmed this system in his interview with The Tribune and ProPublica, saying the piece of fruit was a quiet signal to his busy staff that the patient was there for a falsified vaccine card.

He said during this time he maintained his plastic surgery practice while distributing fake vaccine cards and treating COVID-19 patients with ivermectin and other methods. Ivermectin has not been authorized by the FDA or recommended by the CDC to treat COVID-19.

An undercover state licensor called Moore’s office in March 2022 and asked to make a vaccine appointment during the criminal investigation after someone complained to the state health department, according to the prosecutors. At his clinic, the licensor, posing as a patient, received a vaccine card attesting to her vaccination without ever being offered a shot, prosecutors said.

Federal prosecutors alleged in their trial brief that a portion of the donations for the advocacy group paid a part-time worker at the plastic surgery clinic $18 an hour to give out falsified vaccine cards and administer saline shots to children. The worker, who could not be reached for comment, testified against Moore as part of an agreement with prosecutors to dismiss her charges after the trial, according to prosecutors’ trial brief.

Moore said during an interview that he didn’t make any money himself and never directly charged patients for these cards. He added that every adult patient who got a fake card had wanted one.

“Nobody in my practice was ever tricked. Nobody came to me expecting a vaccine and didn’t get it,” he said. “Everybody got what they wanted.”

But some children who received saline shots at their parents’ request falsely believed they were being vaccinated against COVID-19, according to court filings and Moore. This was a breach of medical ethics because doctors have a duty to build trust between their community and the health care system, said Wendy Parmet, director of Northeastern University’s Center for Health Policy and Law.

Moore said he gave kids the saline shots so they wouldn’t be bullied if their peers found out they got a vaccine card without getting a shot. “I did have some parents that didn’t want their kid to know that they were getting something fake,” he said.

He didn’t question the parents’ deception, Moore said, because he didn’t want to “intervene in their family dynamic.”

“You have to stand up for what you feel is right,” he said. “That’s the reason why I did what I did. I had no intention of defrauding the federal government.”

Emboldening a Movement

On the first day of Moore’s trial in July, about 60 supporters — including state lawmakers like House Speaker Mike Schultz — gathered on the stairs outside the federal courthouse in Salt Lake City. They waved American flags and held signs protesting Moore’s charges at a busy intersection. The doctor tearfully thanked the crowd before walking into the courthouse where a jury would soon be selected.

The rally increased public and social media attention on Moore’s case, eventually reaching Georgia Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene. She sent a letter to Bondi, urging the U.S. attorney general to drop Moore’s charges.

“Dr. Michael Kirk Moore deserves to be celebrated, not prosecuted, for his bravery in standing up to a system that prioritized control over public health,” Greene wrote in her July 12 letter. Her office did not respond to requests for comment. (Greene, an early supporter of Trump’s, recently announced her resignation from Congress after falling out of the president’s favor.)

That same day, Bondi ordered the charges be dropped and thanked Greene and Utah Sen. Mike Lee in posts on X for bringing the case to her attention. Lee’s office did not respond to questions about his role in the dismissal of Moore’s case.

Utah prosecutors then dismissed the charges against Moore, his business and a neighbor who prosecutors alleged had organized the donations to the health freedom advocacy group. Prosecutors also dropped charges against his office manager — who had pleaded guilty — and the part-time worker. Both of these employees testified against Moore and his neighbor the day before Bondi’s announcement. Neither the neighbor nor the office manager responded to requests for comment.

Less than a week after his charges were dropped, Moore and his fiancée flew to Washington, D.C., at Bondi’s invitation to meet with her and Greene; Moore said he asked if Lee could join them. Moore said the America First Policy Institute, a conservative think tank founded by former Trump administration officials, paid for his travel. (The group did not respond to a request for comment.)

Moore described the meeting as low-key and genuine: “It was a handshake and a hug to both M.T.G. and Attorney General Bondi.”

Moore estimates that he lost about two-thirds of his plastic surgery business after his 2023 indictment because he had used his marketing budget to cover his legal expenses. As he’s tried rebuilding his practice in recent months, he rebranded as Freedom Surgical & Aesthetics. He said he started thinking about a new name during the 22 days he spent in jail in November 2024 after a judge determined he had violated pretrial rules by communicating with other co-defendants.

The new name “stands for freedom and for people’s ability to choose,” he said. Images of the American flag and bald eagles appear on his clinic’s new website among photos of svelte women.

Moore’s medical license is in good standing. A state licensing division spokesperson would not say whether the agency is considering taking action against his license.

The lack of consequences for medical workers who falsify records could encourage others to undermine public health guidance, said Paul Offit, a pediatrician and vaccine expert at the University of Pennsylvania and Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Offit, who served on the CDC’s vaccine advisory panel from 1998 to 2003 and has clashed with Kennedy over vaccine policy, was kicked off a vaccine advisory committee for the FDA in August.

“The first two years of the pandemic turbocharged the medical freedom movement, which is a euphemism for basically saying that I don’t need experts. I will do my own Google searches and decide what’s right and what’s not,” Offit said. “Even if it goes against what is standard medical practice or medical wisdom, I’m going to decide for myself — and my neighbor be damned, in the case of vaccines.”

As Moore vows to “do everything I can to get COVID shots off the market,” others who faced similar legal battles say his turn of fortune has inspired them to fight their convictions.

Julie DeVuono, a former nurse in Long Island who also distributed fake vaccine cards to her patients, said she and two others created the CovictedPatriot X account after others who gave out fake cards reached out to her in response to her social media post celebrating Moore’s vindication.

New York state prosecutors had charged DeVuono with forgery and money laundering for using the proceeds from the fake vaccine cards to pay her mortgage. She pleaded guilty in 2023 and was sentenced to community service and probation. Her home was also seized as part of a $1.2 million forfeiture, and she lost her nursing license.

“Is there any chance for us to get some kind of restored justice?” she said in an interview.

DeVuono, 53, said she feels she and others who were convicted of similar crimes were treated unfairly, but she can’t ask for a presidential pardon because her charges were filed in state court. Instead, she’s advocating on behalf of others who can beseech Trump, such as Kathleen Breault, a recently retired midwife and nurse in New York.

Breault faced a possible five-year prison sentence after she and a co-defendant were indicted in federal court in 2023 for destroying thousands of vaccines and issuing falsified vaccine cards.

“I was terrified,” Breault, 68, told The Tribune and ProPublica. “But I also felt defiant, because I felt like what I did was right.”

She said if she had gone to trial, her defense would have been civil disobedience. But Breault has health issues and cares for her grandchildren. She said her children urged her to do whatever she needed to in order to avoid a prison sentence.

So she pleaded guilty to conspiring to defraud the United States — a felony — and was sentenced last December to three years probation. (Her co-defendant, who died in March, had also pleaded guilty.)

Breault said she was buoyed by news over the summer that similar charges against Moore were dropped at the behest of the Trump administration. The outcome of Moore’s case has motivated her to begin the process of asking for a presidential pardon.

A White House spokesperson did not respond to a request for comment about whether Trump has received any pardon requests from health care workers indicted in connection with the pandemic or if he would pardon them. He has not pardoned anyone in that situation, according to a review of the clemency grants in his second term listed on the Department of Justice’s website.

Breault said she’d like to have her conviction erased so she’s not limited by her felon status. She’d like to own a gun again, but those with felony convictions are prohibited from possessing firearms in New York. She’d also like more freedom, including not having to report to her probation officer when she travels or how much is in her bank account.

“After seeing what happened with Kirk,” she said about Moore, “maybe if I didn’t take the plea, I wouldn’t have a felony conviction now.”

This past June, Ashley Voss-Barnes received a court summons in the mail.

PrairieStar Health Center, a nonprofit community health center in south-central Kansas, was suing her for $675 and her wife for $732 in unpaid medical bills. Voss-Barnes knew the clinic received federal funding to make preventive health care accessible in a region where many families, including her own, needed financial help.

She didn’t understand what led to the lawsuit. She and her wife had a blended family of five kids that cost a lot to keep healthy. As a result, years ago, the couple had asked PrairieStar if they could set up an ongoing payment plan to automatically take money from their checking accounts multiple times a month. Voss-Barnes would later state in a court filing that PrairieStar never informed her those payments were not enough to cover her bills and keep her out of collections.

“If I have something due, then I will try to pay it,” she said to ProPublica. “It came out of nowhere.”

Voss-Barnes, a nurse who feels confident navigating the health care system, wanted to push back. She reached out to a local lawyer to see if he could represent them, but he said the debt was too small to be worth it. So she represented herself, filing a letter in court objecting to the lawsuit and asking to continue the existing payment plan.

Eventually, Voss-Barnes and her wife agreed to set up new payment plans with the collections agency for the debt, to avoid having the money taken directly from their paychecks through wage garnishment. To their dismay, they owed hundreds more in interest, court costs and lawyer fees as a result of PrairieStar’s decision to sue.

They worry about PrairieStar suing them again. “I know we’re not the only ones this has happened to,” Voss-Barnes said.

The lawsuits against the two women are among at least 1,000 that PrairieStar has filed against patients since 2020 for unpaid medical bills, according to a ProPublica analysis of state court records over that period. Many patients PrairieStar sued were uninsured and made so little money they qualified for discounted care, a former patient accounts employee told ProPublica.

Community health centers like PrairieStar Health, also known as federally qualified health centers, were created to serve as medical safety nets for people who struggle to afford primary care. They were established during the Civil Rights Movement-era “War on Poverty,” when federal officials realized that low-income Americans, overwhelmed by long drives and crowded hospitals, were forgoing medical attention. The health centers receive federal grants in exchange for serving patients regardless of their ability to pay, increasing access across large swaths of the country.

But ProPublica found that several of these health centers are suing patients and garnishing their paychecks — which experts say contradicts their mission. We identified two other centers in Kansas, plus one in rural Virginia and one in Kalamazoo, Michigan, that consistently filed lawsuits against patients since at least 2020. Our search, which was not exhaustive, focused on states and counties where court records are publicly accessible online. We also reviewed documents from a municipality in Alaska and a county in California that run community health centers, which showed they use outside debt collectors to pursue what patients owe.

Leaders of five community health centers, including PrairieStar, told ProPublica they send patients to collections or file lawsuits against them as a last resort, after sending statements and offering payment plans. Three pointed to the financial instability that community health centers face as a reason to pursue patient debt. All five stressed that they did not turn away patients who could not afford medical care, citing a goal to make health care accessible.

In response to questions from ProPublica, PrairieStar CEO Bryant Anderson said that the health center faces “a perfect storm” caring for patients while also dealing with higher costs and unstable funding. “With all the challenges PrairieStar faces to maintain access to care for the uninsured and the underinsured, having someone imply that we don’t fulfill our mission is certainly rubbing salt in the wounds,” he wrote in an email.

Anderson said PrairieStar generally tries six times to communicate with patients before sending them to collections. He also said every patient is given the option to apply for sliding-scale discounts based on income and about a third choose not to provide that information.

Other health center leaders also explained their decision to pursue patient debt through lawsuits, in response to questions from ProPublica. “We understand that sending accounts to collections can seem at odds with that mission, and it’s not a decision we take lightly,” said Renee Hively, the CEO of CareArc, a community health center in Kansas. CareArc has appeared in local news for pursuing one patient’s medical bill through a lawsuit and wage garnishments for more than 12 years, contributing to her being unable to afford basic utilities. (CareArc did not respond to a request for comment about that particular case.)

A spokesperson for the department that oversees community health centers in Monterey County, California, told ProPublica that most unpaid bills it sends to collections “involve small amounts that do not justify the cost of initiating legal proceedings.” As a result, none of its patients have been sued since 2019. If the health centers ever stopped sending patients to collections, the spokesperson said, the financial effect would be “minimal.”

Most of the public attention on medical debt and related lawsuits has been focused on hospitals, especially nonprofit hospitals that receive tax breaks in order to make care more affordable. Hospitals must provide emergency care regardless of whether the patient can afford it but are not required to provide primary care like checkups or routine screenings. Nonprofit hospitals are required by federal law to check whether patients qualify for financial help before suing them or garnishing their wages.

Community health centers, on the other hand, must make “every reasonable effort” to collect money from patients before writing it off, according to federal law.

Though experts and leaders of other health centers say the centers have ample freedom to decide what “reasonable” means — and whether to pursue debt through collections agencies and the courts — Anderson said the manner in which PrairieStar collects debts is mandated by the law.

He also said that ProPublica may be trying to “induce” other health centers to violate federal law by reporting and writing this story. “Your messaging would therefore be dangerous and intimate that such health centers were not required to make ‘every reasonable effort to secure payments’ for their services,” he wrote.

But experts on community health center finances said that federal law does not require the centers to send patients to collections. “There’s no law that says you have to garnish wages or that you have to go after someone through collections,” said Ray Jorgensen, a health care billing consultant who said he has worked with hundreds of community health centers over about 30 years. “I would say that’s an anomaly. That’s not the norm.”

Anderson did not answer specific questions about PrairieStar’s lawsuits or wage garnishments. He repeatedly said that ProPublica did “not have all the facts” and that the story would be “potentially defamatory,” but he did not clarify what he felt was missing or inaccurate. Nor did he respond directly to questions about Voss-Barnes’ experience, even though she and her wife signed privacy waivers allowing him to do so. Voss-Barnes said that he reached out to her directly, telling her that everyone in their Kansas city would know that she had failed to pay her medical bills if she moved forward with the article. (He did not respond when asked about that outreach.) He did tell ProPublica that he personally contacted both a former employee and another patient who ProPublica had asked him about. The patient stopped responding to ProPublica.

Medical debt experts said they were surprised and horrified to hear that community health centers were using lawsuits and third-party debt collectors to recover money from patients, given their intended purpose of providing care to people who have no other options. Under federal law, community health centers must provide discounted care on a sliding scale for patients who make at or below 200% of the federal poverty guideline, an amount that varies based on family size and household income. A family of four must make under $64,300 to receive a discount. Medical debt disproportionately burdens Black, Hispanic, low-income and uninsured patients — groups more likely to use community health centers for affordable care.

“Patients who have been sued because of medical debt are likely to avoid care in the future,” said Miriam Straus, policy adviser for Community Catalyst, a health advocacy group. “These collection activities seem to violate at least the spirit of the requirement to provide health services available to all.”

On Virginia’s Eastern Shore, a narrow peninsula bordered by the Atlantic and the Chesapeake Bay, getting sued by the community health care center is a regular occurrence. Over the last decade, Eastern Shore Rural Health filed more than 7,000 lawsuits for unpaid medical bills in two counties where 45,000 people live.

It sued one couple for $59 in January 2024, an amount that ballooned by more than 600% within months due to interest, court costs and lawyer fees. Court records show money regularly garnished from people working in the low-wage industries that abound on the Eastern Shore, including poultry processing and retail.

On an August morning in Accomack County’s civil court, Eastern Shore Rural Health accounted for most of the cases on the judge’s docket. One man who showed up to court told ProPublica that the visit potentially cost him hundreds of dollars because he missed out on lucrative hours harvesting oysters and clams. He only spoke Spanish and the court did not make a translator available; the judge told him to return for another hearing in the fall. Most people didn’t show up to court at all, meaning the health center won by default.

ProPublica did not find any other community health centers in Virginia consistently suing patients for unpaid bills in the court records.

Eastern Shore Rural Health began using lawsuits to collect medical debt about 20 years ago after conversations about “maximizing our revenue,” according to Kandy Bruno, the organization’s chief financial officer. A local company called Bay Area Receivables handles its collections and takes 30% to 40% of what it recovers from patients through the court. The minimum amount that Eastern Shore sends to collections is $25, Bruno said.

Bruno said Eastern Shore sends patients to collections when it has exhausted other options, including sending out letters, offering interest-fee payment plans and helping fill out Medicaid applications. “We should never have to send anyone to collections,” she said. “It should be 100% avoidable.” She also said the number of lawsuits the company had filed in a decade was not very high compared to the 32,400 patients seen there last year.

Patients are never refused health care, no matter how much they owe, she said.

Virginia recently passed a law that experts say would stop at least some of Eastern Shore Rural Health’s debt collection practices starting next summer. The law prohibits large medical providers from garnishing wages of patients who qualify for financial assistance.

Bruno said she hasn’t yet looked into how the Virginia law would affect the health center or its patients on the sliding scale. “We will absolutely comply with and make adjustments to comply with the letter of the new law,” she said.

The health center is the main option for preventive care on the peninsula; otherwise, people have to make the long drive up to Maryland or pay tolls, often totaling more than $20, to cross the bridge over the Chesapeake Bay. More than 70% of people who live on the Eastern Shore see doctors at the health center, including higher-income people with private insurance through their jobs, Bruno said.

That means some of the patients, she said, make enough to “take responsibility for their care.” But the health center does not track what percentage of patients sent to collections receive financial assistance or make so little that their checks legally cannot be garnished.

Brittney Shea, a single mom with two teenagers, has been sued three times by Eastern Shore Rural Health since 2021. She and both of her children have chronic health conditions that require them to see doctors and specialists frequently, and the $25 co-payments add up quickly, she said.

Most recently, the health center sued her last October for about $2,000 in medical bills and an additional $760 in lawyer fees and court costs, records show. The money was garnished from multiple paychecks from her Walmart job.

Shea is aware that she ends up paying more through garnishments than she would if she paid her medical bills on time. But she said the money just isn’t there on the front end, especially when she has been out of work due to health emergencies. Sometimes she avoids seeing doctors when she is feeling sick to avoid owing more money.

The cycle of lawsuits and garnishments has made it harder to provide for her children, she said. “You expect this money, but then they’re garnishing you,” she said. “Now you got to figure out how you’re going to feed them, how you’re going to put gas in your car to go back and forth to work, how you’re going to pay your rent.”

Many regions served by community health centers lack primary care options and have

a real need for them. That was the case in Hutchinson, Kansas, a historic salt mining town northwest of Wichita, in the 1990s when the local hospital came up with the idea to start PrairieStar Health.

When Aimee Jones started working at PrairieStar in 2015, she had only ever been on the patient side of debt collection. After a difficult divorce decades earlier, she’d had trouble paying outstanding medical bills and filed for bankruptcy to avoid having her wages garnished.

As a patient accounts representative, Jones was responsible for handing patients’ debt over to an outside collection agency once she had exhausted efforts to get them to pay. PrairieStar would send out three statements and two collections notices and often make an additional phone call reminding patients of their unpaid balances and encouraging them to set up a payment plan. The last notice told them that their bill would be sent to collections. (Anderson, the PrairieStar CEO, told ProPublica the collections agency also sent patients multiple notices before escalating to lawsuits.)

Jones said she convinced her bosses to change some policies in favor of patients. The company was initially sending bills as low as $30 to collections, which Jones felt was pointless because the outside agency took a third of the money. She pushed PrairieStar to raise the threshold to $200 in outstanding debt. In more recent years, that amount increased to $500, she said.

In Kansas, unlike Virginia, lawmakers have not significantly limited how health care providers can recover medical debt. Kansas is also one of 10 states that has chosen not to expand Medicaid, leaving thousands of people unable to get health insurance — and potentially more reliant on community health centers.

Many of the patients who qualified for discounted care based on their income had no insurance, Jones said. And even with lower fees, some struggled to afford medical care at PrairieStar. “You don’t stay on top of it or you come in a lot, it’s going to accumulate quite fast,” Jones said. According to the health center’s financial assistance policy, not all services qualify for discounts.

Jones tried hard to convince patients to pay even a few dollars each month so they could stay out of collections. Often, it worked. She was aware that some people, especially those on fixed incomes, had almost nothing to spare. If they didn’t pay their bills or sign up for a payment plan within about six months, she handed their names over to the collection agency.

Jones could request permission to write off some bills for people who had endured extreme hardship, like a woman whose baby died in a house fire or another whose boyfriend and son died in a car accident. But she couldn’t help everyone.

Once the collection agency referred a case for a lawsuit, it was largely out of Jones’ hands, she said. PrairieStar hired a company that handles collections for hospitals in many Kansas counties — Account Recovery Specialists Inc., which has a documented history of requesting arrest warrants for patients who don’t show up to court. (The collections agency told ProPublica that the warrants were ordered by a judge and that it could not discuss its contract with PrairieStar. It has previously denied using the threat of jail to get people to pay.) Each summer, the agency would send PrairieStar a long list of patient accounts deemed “uncollectible” because they had no income or assets, Jones said.

Jones, who retired last year, looks back on nearly a decade of work with a mixture of pride and sadness. She wonders if PrairieStar could have convinced more people to agree to payment plans if it hadn’t contracted with an outside agency. The health center’s patients would have benefited from a law like Virginia’s, she said, which prevents providers from garnishing wages of patients receiving financial assistance.

“We serve the poorest of the poor. These people don’t have any money,” Jones said.

Pursuing debt in court is a choice, and some community health center leaders have opted out.

Several years before Krista Postai founded the Community Health Center of Southeast Kansas in the state’s poorest region, she worked at a hospital that took extreme measures to collect medical debt. As part of her job, she fielded calls from patients unhappy with the billing process. At times, she said, patients reported receiving warnings that they would be sent to collections, even though they hadn’t received a bill.

When she began applying for grants to start her own clinic in 2002, she knew there had to be another way. “If your goal is really keeping people healthier, it makes more sense to deliver care at the lowest cost possible and not drive them into ERs and hospitals,” she said.

Hospitals do not make much from suing their patients, according to research in several states. (Experts did not know of similar studies on community health centers.) One study of Virginia hospitals found that wage garnishment brought in just a fraction of a percent of their total revenue, on average. But patients can see their finances devastated by these lawsuits, especially with the added interest charges, lawyer fees and court costs.

The National Consumer Law Center, a nonprofit that focuses on consumer protection, urges states to set limits on health care providers collecting medical debt. Their recommendations include capping interest rates for debt at 2% a year — much lower than Kansas’s 10% maximum — and prohibiting lawsuits for patients who qualify for financial help. It recommends banning wage garnishment for all patients.

Community health centers should be held to the same requirements when possible, said Berneta Haynes, policy adviser for the center. “The idea here is that certain types of egregious and aggressive debt collections really should just be banned,” she said.

Community Health Center of Southeast Kansas, based in a county with a poverty rate almost twice that of the state as a whole, provides care to many people who can’t afford to immediately pay their bills. Postai said the health center makes “every reasonable effort” to collect money from patients, as required by federal law. But she is determined to never outsource that work to a collections agency, despite the weekly calls she gets from companies hoping to purchase the health center’s debt.

The center’s internal policy says it will not send patients to collections “to ensure that patient dignity is maintained.” Its peers, she said, should do the same.

“Most people try to pay,” she said. “It makes no sense to take an already stressed population and stress them further.”

Instead, the health center finds creative ways to pull in more patients — using federal grants to open discount pharmacies, serving patients at jails and prisons, partnering with other local nonprofits. It has branched out to neighboring counties with no other sources of affordable medical care. Last year, it wrote off about $5.3 million of bad debt from patients who didn’t pay their bills, about 5% of its total revenue, federal reports show.

Postai said the clinic is willing and able to sustain the loss, and she cringes thinking about patients at PrairieStar and similar health centers who may avoid returning there for medical help.

“That’s a big hole in the safety net,” she said.

Texas Rep. Nate Schatzline’s energy was palpable as he gazed out from the video on the computer screen, grinning ear to ear, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up.

The Republican legislator from Fort Worth had a message to share with people watching the prerecorded video: As a Christian, you have an essential role in politics and local government.

“There is no greater calling than being civically engaged and bringing the values that Scripture teaches us into every realm of the earth,” Schatzline said.

The legislator was teaching a section of Campaign University, a series of online lessons he and others associated with Fort Worth-based megachurch Mercy Culture created to raise up so-called “spirit-led candidates.”

The course, created in 2021, is an extension of Mercy Culture’s increasingly overt political activities that have included candidate endorsements. The church’s political nonprofit, For Liberty & Justice, houses Campaign University.

Campaign University builds on Mercy Culture’s growing political reach as Schatzline, a pastor at the church, joins President Donald Trump’s National Faith Advisory Board and as the course now is offered at other congregations across the country.

The lessons emphasize that would-be candidates don’t need to be experts in government or the Constitution to seek public office or a place in local government. They also train potential candidates to “stand for spiritual righteousness” and teach them how to build a platform and navigate the campaign trail while maintaining a strong family and church life.

At the core of Campaign University is the idea that there is no separation between what happens within the church and what happens in the government. Students are taught to interpret the First Amendment’s establishment clause on the separation of church and state as a protection against government involvement in religion, rather than vice versa.

Previously, churches risked losing their tax-exempt status by discussing or engaging in politics. Then this summer, the Internal Revenue Service decided to allow religious leaders to endorse political candidates from the pulpit, a decision Schatzline took as a green light for him and other pastors to ramp up political activity.

Programs such as Campaign University serve as the “next stage” of this religion-driven political movement, said Eric McDaniel, a government professor who researches the intersection of race, religion and politics at the University of Texas at Austin. Past movements encouraged churchgoers to become activists, he said, but Campaign University stands out for training Christian conservatives to seek public office.

“One of the things about this movement that’s really important is that they started winning local elections, then started winning state and then now they’re winning at the national level,” McDaniel said. “And that’s how you’re able to build a movement and maintain a movement — you start locally.”

In an attempt to better understand Mercy Culture’s approach to recruiting candidates, two journalists from the Fort Worth Report purchased and completed the more than five-hour Campaign University course and listened to hours of the For Liberty & Justice podcast. What became clear in the course is For Liberty & Justice’s mission to push Christian conservative values beyond church doors and into the public sphere.

The nonprofit states on its website that it vets and supports “candidates who are willing to do whatever it takes to protect our God-given liberties and take a stand for Biblical Justice!” Its leaders have said they stand against LGBTQ rights and abortion access, and they have pushed for the ban of diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives in government and public education.

For $100, Campaign University provides its students the knowledge, practical skills and spiritual guidance “to make an impact for the kingdom in government” — not “just in a way that’s passionate but in a way that’s calculated,” Schatzline says within the first five minutes of the course.

The Fort Worth Report identified at least 10 people — through social media posts, press releases and podcasts — who completed Campaign University. They included Texas GOP Chairman Abraham George; an unsuccessful candidate who ran for a Dallas City Council seat this year; Tarrant County Republican precinct chairs; campaign managers; and a number of people who work for or previously worked for Mercy Culture or For Liberty & Justice.

None returned the Fort Worth Report’s requests for comment.

Schatzline twice agreed to an interview but never responded to efforts to set a date and did not return phone calls and emails seeking comment. He and other Mercy Culture pastors created Campaign University after working on Texas political campaigns, including the legislator’s, through For Liberty & Justice. Schatzline previously told the Fort Worth Report that he’s working to take the nonprofit to the national level.

It’s not unusual for churches or spiritual leaders to encourage political activity from congregants, said Amanda Tyler, executive director of the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty and lead organizer of the national nonprofit’s Christians Against Christian Nationalism campaign.

“What does seem unusual — and perhaps unique — is an actual candidate training academy that’s run out of the church,” Tyler said. “Often, particularly if we’re talking about partisan campaigns for public office, that’s a place that churches and other houses of worship have largely steered clear of partisan politics.”

Schatzline has said he won’t seek reelection to his seat representing north Fort Worth and its surrounding suburbs but plans to continue as a pastor with Mercy Culture and to lead For Liberty & Justice.

The national faith board that Schatzline has been tapped to join declares its mission is to be “a strong, unified, uncompromising voice” on issues such as religious freedom, marriage, reproductive and parental rights, and gender-affirming care.

“It’s never been more apparent that the church has to rise up and be a bold voice in American government today,” Schatzline said in an Oct. 27 video he uploaded to social media announcing his new position.

That sentiment is recognizable in Campaign University.

At the start of the course, Schatzline tells Christians to ask themselves three questions the typical candidate might not consider but that he stresses are key to success if one is called to serve.

Did the call to government come from the Holy Spirit? Will your loved ones pray with you about it? Even if you don’t win, are you still giving God glory?

Don’t run if you “can’t hear the Holy Spirit” because other voices on the campaign trail may “shift your perspective,” Schatzline said.

A Divine Calling

Campaign University and other Mercy Culture political activities deliver on a commitment that Steve Penate told the Report he and fellow church pastor Landon Schott made to each other years ago: build a church that would “turn the city upside down” and be a leader in local politics.

Schott and his wife, Heather Schott, senior pastor of Mercy Culture, did not return emails seeking comment for this story.

Over its six years, the church has become a center of conservative religious politics in the region and increasingly across the state. This year, members gathered for prayer at the Texas Capitol, blessing its walls on the first day of the 2025 legislative session.

Last year, pastors urged Fort Worth City Council members — using threats of litigation — to approve the church’s new shelter for victims of human trafficking, despite opposition from residents of the adjacent neighborhood. Council members in favor of the move said at the time that politics did not affect their decision.

Fort Worth Mayor Mattie Parker, a Republican, did not return a request for comment on Mercy Culture’s impact on the city through political efforts such as Campaign University.

The skills taught in Campaign University build off lessons learned from Penate’s failed campaign for Fort Worth mayor in 2021, when he lost to Parker, the pastor told the Fort Worth Report.

Penate said “tons” of people have completed Campaign University since its creation. Neither he, Schatzline nor Campaign University’s other instructors provided lists of graduates. About 50 people were pictured in the Campaign University’s first graduating class, according to a 2022 Instagram post by For Liberty & Justice.

Mercy Culture’s expansion has included additional church campuses in Fort Worth, Dallas, Waco and Austin, and it plans to open a San Antonio campus next year. Penate said For Liberty & Justice aims to partner with churches across the country as it seeks to elevate Campaign University to a national level. Although he didn’t provide specifics, Penate said the goal is to create lessons for local churches to politically mobilize congregants, similarly to how Charlie Kirk’s Turning Point USA mobilizes students on college campuses.

He said the church is already spreading awareness about Campaign University by opening For Liberty & Justice chapters in other states.

As of late October, two For Liberty & Justice chapters outside of Texas offer Campaign University, Penate said. They are Florida’s nondenominational Revive Church and Hawaii’s Pentecostal megachurch King’s Maui, according to Schatzline’s social media posts. Representatives from the churches did not return requests for comment.

The nonprofit plans to open its next chapter in Arizona at the start of 2026, Penate said. After that, he expects For Liberty & Justice to grow exponentially thanks to Schatzline’s visibility on Trump’s faith advisory board.

“Next year is going to be explosive,” Penate said.

Religion has long had a historic role in major American political movements, McDaniel, the government professor, said.

Leaders such as Baptist minister Martin Luther King Jr. were involved in the Civil Rights Movement. Televangelist Jerry Falwell founded the political organization called the Moral Majority in 1979 and mobilized a generation of Christian conservative voters.

“This idea that God has called you to do this is a very empowering message. It gives you a clear source of identity and direction,” McDaniel said.

Many of Campaign University’s teachings address basic civics that might be useful to anyone running for office. Its lessons and 92-page course materials offer hands-on assignments for participants to start engaging with local government, such as reading the U.S. Constitution, identifying the elected officials who represent them at different levels of government and creating lists of potential campaign donors.

Campaign University’s goal is to bring Jesus into “every sphere of influence and every mountain,” Joshua Moore, another course instructor, says in the course’s second lesson. “That’s what we’re called to do as political activists.” Moore, who serves as Schatzline’s district director in the Texas House, is a former Republican New Hampshire state lawmaker. He did not return phone calls and emails seeking comment for this story.

In Campaign University, instructors often emphasize what they describe as a divine calling for Christians to serve in local government.

“A grandma can pray at home on her knees, but who’s in Austin on the inside, that has a voice, that has a vote?” Penate told the Report. “It starts in prayer, but you gotta get on the inside.”

Schatzline embodies this ethos in many ways, and he’s become a well-known face in far-right Christian conservative politics in Texas.

During this year’s legislative sessions, he authored 75 state bills on a range of issues, such as limiting DEI initiatives in local government, banning drag show performances in front of children and further penalizing the possession or promotion of child pornography. He failed to get many of his bills passed this year, except for one aimed at criminalizing the promotion or possession of child-like sex dolls.

“We’re going to give this space back to the Holy Spirit,” Schatzline said at the Capitol during the Mercy Culture-led worship session earlier this year. “We give you this room. … The 89th legislative session is yours, Lord. The members of this body are yours, Lord. This building belongs to you, Jesus.”

Landon Schott, the Mercy Culture co-founder, also participated in the January event at the Capitol, as did George, the state Republican Party chair, who has taken the Campaign University course.

“There is no separation between church and state,” George said at the event, according to published reports.

Campaign University lessons highlight what its instructors argue were the Founding Fathers’ “deep religious beliefs” as evidence that “God was not separate from the public square; nor was that the intent of the founders.”

The Founding Fathers “insisted upon a country that welcomed the role of religion in society, viewing it as a public good,” said Jeremy Dys, senior counsel for the First Liberty Institute, a Plano-based legal group known for representing clients in high-profile religious freedom cases, including a Plano student who was banned from distributing candy cane pens with a religious message on them at a school party and an Oregon woman who refused to bake a wedding cake for a same-sex couple due to her religious beliefs.

“Abandoning our societal cynicism toward religion would strengthen our commitment to liberty. It would do much to strengthen our country to regain the vision of our founders that celebrated the role of religion in our lives, public and private,” Dys said in an email to the Report.

But under the establishment clause, government entities shouldn’t impose religious laws or policies, said Tyler, the Christians Against Christian Nationalism organizer. Laws should “serve and support a pluralistic society,” she said.

“If our goal in engaging in partisan politics is to impose our own interpretation of the Bible, our own religious views on other people, that will lead to harm for people in our communities that are not of the same religious views,” Tyler said.

County at a Crossroads

For Liberty & Justice’s efforts to mobilize Christian conservatives through Campaign University come at a pivotal moment in Tarrant County, where Fort Worth is located, as Republicans seek to maintain control of the nation’s largest urban red county, which has shown occasional signs of turning purple. Tarrant voters supported Joe Biden’s presidential bid in 2020 and twice voted in favor of Republican Sen. Ted Cruz’s Democratic opponents, in 2018 and 2024.

“Every single seat matters, and now is the time to rise up. Now is the time to run. Now is the time to get godly men and women in office,” Schatzline told dozens of attendees at a Sept. 9 For Liberty & Justice event at Mercy Culture aimed at encouraging political action.

The Republican-majority Tarrant County Commissioners Court, the county’s governing body, led by County Judge Tim O’Hare, steamrolled through a redistricting process this summer to gain a stronger majority as detractors alleged racially motivated gerrymandering. In late October, a federal appeals court upheld a judge’s decision not to block the new map.

O’Hare did not respond to a request for comment.

After state lawmakers adopted a new congressional map to create additional GOP seats at Trump’s request this summer, the political makeup of Tarrant County’s congressional delegation is poised to shift from five Republicans and two Democrats to four Republicans and one Democrat.

For Liberty & Justice continues to develop its pipeline of candidates for local and state offices. The group circulates a friends and family list of candidates that it says share the same values. One candidate who repeatedly made the list was conservative Fort Worth City Council member Alan Blaylock, who announced his bid for Schatzline’s seat Oct. 27 after the lawmaker said he wouldn’t seek reelection.

Others named on the list included city council and school board candidates across the county. Several told the Report they weren’t required to complete Campaign University to be included on the list and that they hadn’t taken the course.

For Liberty & Justice is prepared to ensure strong Republican results as Tarrant voters gear up for next year’s elections, plus a runoff election to fill a Texas Senate seat vacated by now-Acting Comptroller Kelly Hancock.

It makes sense that Tarrant County, which political experts describe as a bellwether in national politics, may be a driver in national conversations around how religion and politics intersect, said McDaniel, the UT professor.

His message echoed the sentiments expressed by For Liberty & Justice leaders and attendees during a recent night of action at Mercy Culture Church.

Throughout the night, volunteers who completed Campaign University emphasized how the lessons can not only activate people to run for office but also enable them to lead small groups of fellow Christian conservatives in political action, such as advocating for policy issues at city council or school board meetings.

Event organizers encouraged attendees to get civically engaged that night by joining small political action groups in neighborhoods scattered across Tarrant County, with specific interests such as “biblical citizenship” or “prayer and intercession.”

To end the night, one Campaign University graduate led the crowd in prayer. “We need you, Lord, desperately to be able to accomplish what you are calling us to do for this nation, for our city, for our county, for our state.”

The first time a Pennsylvania consultant named Charles Sowell connected with border czar Tom Homan was when Sowell reached out on LinkedIn in 2021, looking for advice about border contracting work. Homan had finished a stint as acting director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, capping a three-decade career in federal government. He and Sowell built a rapport, based partly on their shared criticisms of then-President Joe Biden’s border policies.

By 2023, the men had gone into business together. Sowell was paying Homan as a consultant to his boutique firm, SE&M Solutions, which advised companies — in some cases for a fee of $20,000 a month — seeking contracts from the agencies where Homan had once worked. In 2024, Sowell became chair of the board of Homan’s foundation, Border911, which championed tougher border security.

During his 2024 presidential campaign, Donald Trump made it clear that if he won reelection he would appoint Homan to oversee the sweeping crackdown on illegal immigration that he’d promised his supporters, which would likely involve billions of dollars in new contracts for private companies. At the Republican National Convention speech in which Trump accepted his party’s nomination in July, he said Homan would have a role in launching “the largest deportation operation in the history of our country.”

“Put him in charge,” Trump said, “and just sit back and watch.”

After Trump won and formally announced Homan would be returning with him to the White House, Sowell kept Homan on his payroll until the end of the year. Once named as the border czar, Homan said he would recuse himself from contracting, saying he would have no “involvement, discussion, input, or decision of any future government contracts.”

But several industry executives who spoke with ProPublica said at least half a dozen companies vying for a slice of the $45 billion Congress has allocated for immigration detention work had hired Sowell because he had led them to believe his connections to Homan would help their chances of winning government work.

Homan's business relationships are under greater scrutiny after MSNBC reported an FBI sting that allegedly caught him on tape accepting $50,000 in cash from undercover agents posing as would-be government contractors before he took the border czar post.

His relationship with Sowell raises fresh questions about the integrity of the billion-dollar contracting process for immigration enforcement, ethics experts say.

Just last month, Sowell and Homan’s senior adviser Mark Hall visited one of Sowell’s clients seeking to cash in on an unprecedented plan by the Trump administration to build temporary immigrant detention camps on military bases, sources told ProPublica. As recently as February, Hall too had been paid by Sowell’s firm, records show. At the same time, the extent of Homan’s recusal has been called into question: Records of internal meetings obtained by ProPublica showed that over the summer Homan was in conversation with industry executives about the government’s contracting plans.

ProPublica gleaned more details than previously reported by examining federal disclosure forms, government documents and internal communications from firms in the Homeland Security industry, and from interviews with Sowell and several current and former government officials, as well as executives at companies seeking contracts in the burgeoning detention sector. Most spoke on condition of anonymity because of their ongoing work in the sector.

Government officials in Homan’s position are required to steer clear of any activity that could impact their former business associates for a year after entering government. Discussing immigration-related contracts with industry players would represent a “clear-cut violation” of federal ethics regulations, said Don Fox, the former general counsel for the Office of Government Ethics, an independent agency in the executive branch.

“You shouldn’t be in those briefings,” Fox said. “You are either recused or you are not.”

It’s common for companies looking to land federal contracts to hire consultants and seek expertise of former government employees. Those relationships are subject to federal ethics rules designed to guard against conflicts of interest. The White House and DHS did not provide requested copies of Homan’s formal recusal documents, which might outline exactly what kinds of activities government lawyers told Homan should be off limits.

Homan and Hall did not respond to requests for comment. In an interview, Sowell said he and Homan no longer have a financial relationship. White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson said Homan has “no involvement in the actual awarding of a government contract.”

In his role as border czar, Homan “occasionally meets with a variety of people to learn about new developments and capabilities to serve the needs of the American people,” she said.

Kathleen Clark, a law professor at Washington University in St. Louis and an expert in government ethics, said, however, “It’s not just about tainted awards. If the industry believes the system is corrupt, then the public is harmed. And the damage has already been done.”

Growing Wealth

Homan spent more than 30 years in public service, eventually rising to become a senior figure at ICE, a division of the Department of Homeland Security, during the administration of President Barack Obama. He was acting ICE director during Trump’s first term until he left government seven years ago.

While out of public office, Homan was highly critical of Biden’s border policies and formed the nonprofit Border911 to “educate Americans on what it means to have a secure, well-managed border.”

Homan’s private-sector work before he returned to government transformed his finances. In 2017, he declared assets totaling a maximum of just $250,000 on his ethics disclosures following a career in federal service, a figure that excludes certain government retirement accounts.

By 2025, his net worth had grown to between $3 million to $9 million, the disclosure documents show. (The forms list assets in ranges, and a portion of his net worth may come from money he had saved in government retirement accounts.)

In his years out of government, Homan became a household name in conservative circles as a frequent contributor on Fox News. He started a consulting firm and was paid for public speaking engagements around the country, raising alarms about the record number of border crossings during the Biden administration. The dire situation at the border, he said, could require the intervention of the U.S. military and the hiring of private companies to carry out a mass deportation campaign. “We’re going to contract as much work out as we can, work that doesn’t require a badge and a gun,” Homan told Fox News in 2024.

After Trump made clear his intentions to tap Homan as border czar, Sowell reached out to government contracting experts, saying he was working with Homan’s Border911 Foundation to help streamline procurement for the incoming administration’s mass deportation policy, said two people who spoke with him.

Sowell, sources in the industry said, made it known he was bringing together a group of companies that could be in line for lucrative contracts building detention camps for the Trump administration.

In an interview with ProPublica in June, Sowell said when his clients wanted to understand DHS better, he would bring in Homan to get his perspective as a former senior ICE leader. Bloomberg recently reported about aspects of Homan’s business dealings with Sowell.

Hints of Homan’s financial relationship with Sowell can be found in Homan’s federally required financial disclosure forms, which contain limited information. The forms report that Sowell’s firm paid Homan some sum of money — more than $5,000 — sometime between 2023 and early 2025. They do not say how much or exactly when he was paid, but Sowell told ProPublica their financial relationship ended last November or December.

Separately, Hall disclosed he was paid $50,000 by Sowell for consulting in January and February before he entered government in February. Hall also was a part-time board member at the Border911 foundation from April 2024 to February, according to his LinkedIn page.

Sowell made public his affinity for Homan at an industry conference in April, where many major players were present: He spent $20,000 at a charity auction to purchase a commemorative quilt made from Border Patrol agent vests. It was signed by Homan.

Sowell did not name his clients, but ProPublica learned several are companies that build temporary shelters, staffing agencies that supply security guards and medical companies that provide health care services, though they did not have direct expertise in immigration detention. Sowell said he couldn’t comment on his conversations with Homan since Homan went back into government. “I don’t have a lot of opportunities to chat with him anymore, even as a friend,” he said.

“Tom is an exceptionally ethical person,” Sowell said in the June interview, adding that his and Homan’s work steered clear of any real or perceived conflicts of interest. “I’m exceptionally proud of this administration for not doing that type of ‘it’s who you know’ versus ‘what you can do’ type of contracting.”

Asked about additional details in this story before publication, Sowell declined to comment.

Sowell appears to still be in contact — at least to some extent — with the border czar’s office. Last month, he and Hall flew to visit the Houston offices of Industrial Tent Systems, a family-owned company that specializes in quickly building temporary structures. ProPublica learned that Industrial Tent Systems is one of Sowell’s clients. Hall was there that day to hear the company’s leaders pitch their plan to use their tents and services for immigration detention, even sampling some of the tacos they were hoping to serve detainees, according to two sources with knowledge of the meeting.

Industrial Tent Systems did not respond to a request for comment.

The White House said Hall has never been authorized by Homan to represent him.

“It is unusual,” said Gil Kerlikowske, a former commissioner of U.S. Customs and Border Protection who served as drug czar for Obama, when asked about the meeting. “As an adviser this would be totally inappropriate to meet with potential contractors.” Generally, he said, a top decision-maker would not meet with a potential contractor, who would typically have to go through “numerous hoops” to even request a meeting that may well be denied.

Another one of the companies seeking expertise from Sowell and Homan was USA Up Star, an Indiana-based company that specializes in building temporary facilities.

Homan and Sowell were both on the payroll of USA Up Star before Homan was named border czar, according to several industry sources with direct knowledge of the relationship and government documents.

Homan’s disclosures show only that USA Up Star paid him as a consultant sometime between 2023 and early 2025, but do not detail how much or when. During this time, a picture of Homan and the company’s owner and founder, Klay South, standing in front of a private jet was posted on social media. South said he had no comment.

Military Contracting

Sowell’s clients have been trying to navigate a byzantine but highly lucrative contracting landscape, as the Trump administration has pledged to arrest 3,000 immigrants a day and is seeking to double the number of detention beds.

Early this year, the Trump administration drew up plans to build a series of massive detention camps on military bases to hold immigrants as part of a deportation effort, the first of which was planned for Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas.

The administration came up with a novel way to fund that camp, drawing on a contracting process run by the U.S. military known as the WEXMAC (which stands for Worldwide Expeditionary Multiple Award Contract). Homan spoke to companies in the industry about those plans.

Records obtained by ProPublica show a contracting officer at the Department of Defense, which the administration now calls the Department of War, saying in a meeting that Homan had been talking to companies about the WEXMAC. “Border czar has been briefed by industry,” the official informed his colleagues. ”Border czar is most likely going to say something to SECDEF,” the official continued, referring to Secretary of Defense Peter Hegseth. Bloomberg also reported on the June meeting.

Inquiries into Homan’s previous work in the private sector and his business relationships are likely to ramp up following the reports of the $50,000 undercover sting. That federal investigation into Homan was launched after the subject of another inquiry — not Sowell — claimed the border czar was soliciting payments in exchange for the promise of future contracts should Trump return to power, a person familiar with the closed investigation said.

“This matter originated under the previous administration and was subjected to a full review by FBI agents and Justice Department prosecutors,” FBI Director Kash Patel and Deputy Attorney General Todd Blanche said in a joint statement. “They found no credible evidence of any criminal wrongdoing. The Department’s resources must remain focused on real threats to the American people, not baseless investigations. As a result, the investigation has been closed.”

The White House press secretary denied that Homan received the money, and Homan has said he has done nothing illegal. He has not been charged with any offense, and neither Hall nor Sowell has been accused of wrongdoing.

Democratic lawmakers are seeking audio and video evidence from the closed FBI case and have also raised questions about Homan’s financial ties to The Geo Group, a private prison firm he previously consulted for that has won lucrative contracts in recent months. The Geo Group did not reply to a request for comment.

Tens of billions of dollars of additional funding for immigration enforcement have yet to be spent. The detention camp contract at Fort Bliss, which could eventually hold 5,000 people, was awarded to a consortium of firms led by a company on the military contracting list for over $1 billion. It is the first of several such facilities planned in coming years.

A number of Sowell’s clients — including Industrial Tent Systems and USA Up Star — were among the close to 60 companies recently added to the WEXMAC. That makes them eligible to bid on those future immigration detention camp contracts.

Now that he’s free, Leonardo José Colmenares Solórzano, a 31-year-old Venezuelan, wants the world to know that he was tortured over four months in a Salvadoran prison. He said guards stomped on his hands, poured filthy water into his ears and threatened to beat him if he didn’t kneel alongside other inmates and lick their backs.

Now that he’s free, Juan José Ramos Ramos, 39, insists he’s not who President Donald Trump says he is. He’s not a member of a gang or an international terrorist, just a man with tattoos whom immigration agents spotted riding in a car with a Venezuela sticker on the back.

Now that he’s free, Andry Omar Blanco Bonilla, 40, said he wondered every day of his time in prison whether he’d ever hold his mother in his arms again. He’s relieved to be back home in Venezuela but struggles to make sense of why he and the other men were put through that ordeal in the first place.

“We are a group of people who I consider had the bad luck of ending up on this black list,” he said.

These are the accounts being shared by some of the more than 230 Venezuelan men the Trump administration deported on March 15 to a maximum-security prison in El Salvador known as CECOT. Throughout the men’s incarceration, the administration used blanket statements and exaggerations that obscured the truth about who they are and why they were targeted. The president has both hailed the men’s removal as a signature achievement of his first 100 days in office and touted it as a demonstration of the lengths his administration was willing to go to carry out his mass deportation campaign. He assured the public that he was fulfilling his promise to rid the country of immigrants who’d committed violent crimes, and that the men sent to El Salvador were “monsters,” “savages” and “the worst of the worst.”

Few cases have gotten as much attention as the Venezuelans sent to CECOT. They were deported against the instructions of a federal judge, frog-marched off American planes and forced to kneel before cameras and have their heads shaved. The administration rebuffed requests to confirm the men’s names or provide information about the allegations it had made against them. Meanwhile, the deportees were held without access to lawyers or the ability to speak to their families. Then, 12 days ago, they were returned to Venezuela in a prisoner swap.

Now that they’re home, they’ve begun to talk. We interviewed nine men for this story. They are bewildered, frightened, angry. Some said their feelings about what happened were still so raw they had trouble finding words to describe them. All of the men said they were abused physically and mentally during their imprisonment. Their relatives say they, too, went through hell wondering whether their loved ones were alive or dead, or if they would ever see them again. All the men said they were relieved to be free, though some said their release was proof the U.S. had no reason to send them to prison to begin with.

Blanco, for example, has no criminal record in the U.S., according to the government’s own data. His only violation was having entered the country illegally. He’d come because he wasn’t earning enough to help his parents and support his seven children, ages 2 to 19, after his family’s wholesale dairy and deli supply business failed. He arrived in December 2023 and turned himself in to immigration authorities in Eagle Pass, Texas, to request asylum. Then he was released to continue his immigration process.

Afterward, Blanco moved to Dallas and found work delivering food. In February 2024, he accompanied his cousin to a routine appointment with Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials. While he was there, he decided to notify the agency that he’d changed his address. On his way out of the building, an immigration agent stopped him and asked about his tattoos. He has several of them, including a blue rose, a father hugging his son behind railroad tracks and a clock showing the time his mother was born.

He said the tattoos signified his affection for his family, not evidence of affiliation with a gang. Records show the officials didn’t believe him and detained him. While in custody, a judge ordered his deportation. However, because Washington and Caracas don’t have diplomatic relations, the Venezuelan government was refusing to accept most deportees from the United States at the time. Immigration officials released Blanco back into the U.S. until they could send him home.

For the next seven months, Blanco continued on in Dallas and picked up additional work as a mechanic. Then, shortly after Trump was inaugurated, ICE officers asked Blanco to come in for another appointment and detained him. A month later, despite Venezuela agreeing to take back some deportees, Blanco was on one of three planes bound for El Salvador.

“From the moment I realized I was in El Salvador and that I would be detained, it was anguish,” he said. “I was shaken. It hit me hard. Hard, hard, hard.”

To deport the Venezuelans, Trump invoked an obscure law from the 1700s known as the Alien Enemies Act. He declared that the men were all part of a Venezuelan prison gang called Tren de Aragua that was invading the United States. Within days, CBS News published a list of the men’s names, and there were anecdotal reports indicating that not all of the deportees were hardened criminals, much less “savages.” By early April, several news organizations had reported that the majority of the men did not appear to have criminal records.

Administration officials dismissed the reports, saying that many of the deportees were known human rights abusers, gang members and criminals outside of the U.S. The fact they hadn’t committed crimes in the United States, they said, didn’t mean they weren’t a threat to public safety.

To examine those claims, ProPublica, The Texas Tribune and a team of Venezuelan journalists from Alianza Rebelde Investiga (Rebel Alliance Investigates) and Cazadores de Fake News (Fake News Hunters) launched an exhaustive investigation of the backgrounds of the 238 men on the list of detainees first published by CBS. Last week, we published a first-of-its-kind database that highlights our findings, including the fact the Trump administration knew at least 197 of the men had no criminal convictions in the U.S. Nearly half the men had open immigration cases when they were deported, and at least 166 have tattoos, which experts have told us are not an indicator of gang membership.

When asked for comment for this story, Abigail Jackson, a White House spokesperson, called ProPublica a “liberal rag hellbent on defending violent criminal illegal aliens who never belonged in the United States.” She added, “America is safer with them out of our country.”

A Department of Homeland Security spokesperson echoed the White House’s claim. “Once again, the media is falling all over themselves to defend criminal illegal gang members,” the spokesperson said in a statement. “We hear far too much about gang members and criminals’ false sob stories and not enough about their victims.”

The fact that border encounters have plummeted to record lows after reaching record highs during the Biden presidency suggests that the administration’s efforts are having the effect that Trump intended. After what happened to him, Colmenares said he didn’t think migrating to the U.S. was safe anymore.

He’d been a youth soccer coach in Venezuela before setting off for the U.S. He followed the rules and got an appointment to approach the U.S.-Mexico border last October, as had more than 50 of the men. At the appointment, Colmenares said an agent pulled him aside to take pictures of his many tattoos — then detained him. He never set foot in the U.S. as a free man.

“The country with the Statue of Liberty deprived us of our liberty without any kind of evidence,” he said in an interview two days after he was returned to his family. “Who is going to go to the border now, knowing that they will grab you and put you in a prison where they will kill you?”

The men we interviewed said the terror they felt in El Salvador began almost immediately upon arrival.

Salvadoran police boarded the planes and began forcing the shackled men off — shoving them, throwing them to the ground, hitting them with their batons. Five said they saw flight attendants crying at the sight.

“This will teach you not to enter our country illegally,” Colmenares said one ICE official told him in Spanish. He wanted to explain that wasn’t true in his case but could tell there was no point. He got off the plane and was loaded onto a bus to prison.

Once inside, guards stripped them down to white boxers and sandals. Those who tried to refuse to have their heads shaved were beaten. Blanco said he heard their screams and didn’t dare resist. Humiliated and enraged, he did as he was told: head down, body limp.

They were loaded up again on the buses and taken to another part of the compound. Blanco said the shackles were so tight that he couldn’t walk as fast as the guards wanted, so they beat him until he passed out and dragged him the rest of the way. Inside, they dropped him so hard that his head banged on the floor. As he opened his eyes and saw the guards, bright lights and polished concrete floor, he asked: “God, why am I here? Why?”

The men said beatings by the guards were random, severe and constant. Guards lashed out at them with their fists and batons. They kicked them while wearing heavy work boots and shot them at close range with rubber pellets. One man we spoke to said he suspects he will have a lasting injury from a hard kick to the groin.

Colmenares recalled seeing one man defecate all over himself after a particularly severe beating. Guards laughed at him and left him there for a day, saying that the Venezuelans weren’t “real men.”

Just as vicious, the men said, was the psychological abuse. They lost track of the days because they were never allowed outdoors. Blanco said that whenever he asked a guard for the time, they’d mock him: “Why do you want to know what time it is? Have somewhere to be? Is someone waiting for you?”

Over and over, the men said, the guards called them criminals and terrorists and sons of bitches who deserved to be locked up. They said the guards told them so often that they were nobodies and that no one, not even their families, cared about them that some started to believe it.

The men said they waged at least two dayslong hunger strikes, skipping the beans, rice and tortillas they were fed most days, to demand an end to the abuses and an explanation for why they were in prison. “They told us nothing about how the process was going, what was going to happen to us, when we were going to see a judge, when we were going to see an attorney,” Ramos said.

Several of those interviewed said suicide crossed their minds. Ramos said he thought: “I’d rather die or kill myself than to keep living through this experience. Being woken up every day at 4 a.m. to be insulted and beaten. For wanting to shower, for asking for something so basic. ... Hearing your brothers getting beaten, crying for help.”

Four talked about a man who started cutting himself and writing messages on the walls and sheets with his blood: “Stop hitting us.” “We are fathers.” “We are brothers.” “We are innocent people.”

Some of them became friends. They made playing cards out of juice boxes and soaked tortillas in water and shaped the cornmeal into dice. They talked about their families and wondered if anyone knew where they were. They prayed.

About three and a half months into their detention, the men said they noticed a change in the guards and in the conditions in the facility. They were beaten less frequently and less severely. They were given ibuprofen, antibiotics and toothbrushes. They were told to shave and shower. And a psychologist came in to evaluate them.

Then, sometime after midnight on July 18, guards began banging their batons on the bars of the men’s cells. “Everyone take a shower,” they yelled.

This time, when Blanco asked for the time, a guard gave it to him. It was 1:40 a.m.

Photographers and reporters were allowed into the facility. Blanco wondered whether he was about to be a part of a publicity stunt. He told himself he wouldn’t give them what they wanted. No smiles for the camera.

Then, a top Salvadoran official walked in. “You are leaving.”

In a brief phone interview, Félix Ulloa, El Salvador’s vice president, denied any mistreatment and pointed to videos of the men looking unscathed as they left the prison as proof they were in good shape. He declined to comment on what role, if any, the U.S. had played in what happened to the men while they were in El Salvador. However, according to court records, the Salvadoran government previously told the United Nations that while it was physically holding the men, they remained under U.S. jurisdiction.

The Trump administration pledged millions of dollars to El Salvador to hold the deportees in CECOT.

Natalia Molano, a spokesperson for the U.S. State Department, said the U.S. is not responsible for the conditions of the men’s detention in El Salvador. If there are complaints now that the men have returned to Venezuela, she said, “the United States is not involved in the conversation.”

During his months in CECOT, Ramos said he found solace in the Bible, the only book available. He said he felt particularly drawn to the Book of Job, a wealthy man whom God tested with loss and pain. Despite his losses, Ramos said, Job “never denied God.” He said Job “had a lot of faith.”

That’s how Ramos, a former telephone technician, saw his time in El Salvador: a divine test that he’d overcome with faith. The seven long months it had taken him to migrate from Venezuela to the United States — which involved walking through the treacherous Darién jungle — seemed easy by comparison.

As soon as his family and neighbors got word that he was on his way home to Guatire, just outside Caracas, they cobbled together $20 to help his mother, Lina Ramos, decorate the house and make a meal of chicken and rice with plantains.

Knowing that his mother had marched and fought for his release, that no one had forgotten him and the other men who’d been detained with him, he said, “was the best gift we could have gotten.”

But the effects of what he went through still linger. Now, when he tries to read the Bible, he said, he notices his sight is failing in his left eye. He thinks it was caused by a particular beating, one of many, where guards repeatedly hit him on his ears and head after he tried to bathe outside of the designated time. He said he has no money at the moment to see a doctor. He arrived home with nothing but the clothes he was wearing.

He is sure he’ll work something out, though. He has faith.

One afternoon in mid-September, a group of middle school girls in rural East Tennessee decided to film a TikTok video while waiting to begin cheerleading practice.

In the 45-second video posted later that day, one girl enters the classroom holding a cellphone. “Put your hands up,” she says, while a classmate flickers the lights on and off. As the camera pans across the classroom, several girls dramatically fall back on a desk or the floor and lie motionless, pretending they were killed.

When another student enters and surveys the bodies on the ground in poorly feigned shock, few manage to suppress their giggles. Throughout the video, which ProPublica obtained, a line of text reads: “To be continued……”

Penny Jackson’s 11-year-old granddaughter was one of the South Greene Middle School cheerleaders who played dead. She said the co-captains told her what to do and she did it, unaware of how it would be used. The next day, she was horrified when the police came to school to question her and her teammates.

By the end of the day, the Greene County Sheriff’s Department charged her and 15 other middle school cheerleaders with disorderly conduct for making and posting the video. Standing outside the school’s brick facade, Lt. Teddy Lawing said in a press conference that the girls had to be “held accountable through the court system” to show that “this type of activity is not warranted.” The sheriff’s office did not respond to ProPublica’s questions about the incident.

Widespread fear of school shootings is colliding with algorithms that accelerate the spread of the most outrageous messages to cause chaos across the country. Social videos, memes and retweets are becoming fodder for criminal charges in an era of heightened responses to student threats. Authorities say harsh punishment is crucial to deter students from making threatening posts that multiply rapidly and obscure their original source.

In many cases, especially in Tennessee, police are charging students for jokes and misinterpretations, drawing criticism from families and school violence prevention experts who believe a measured approach is more appropriate. Students are learning the hard way that they can’t control where their social media messages travel. In central Tennessee last fall, a 16-year-old privately shared a video he created using artificial intelligence, and a friend forwarded it to others on Snapchat. The 16-year-old was expelled and charged with threatening mass violence, even though his school acknowledged the video was intended as a private joke.

Other students have been charged with felonies for resharing posts they didn’t create. As ProPublica wrote in May, a 12-year-old in Nashville was arrested and expelled this year for sharing a screenshot of threatening texts on Instagram. He told school officials he was attempting to warn others and wanted to “feel heroic.”

In Greene County, the cheerleaders’ video sent waves through the small rural community, especially since it was posted several days after the fatal Apalachee High School shooting one state away. The Georgia incident had spawned thousands of false threats looping through social media feeds across the country. Lawing told ProPublica and WPLN at the time that his officers had fielded about a dozen social media threats within a week and struggled to investigate them. “We couldn’t really track back to any particular person,” he said.

But the cheerleaders’ video, with their faces clearly visible, was easy to trace.

Jackson understands that the video was in “very poor taste,” but she believes the police overreacted and traumatized her granddaughter in the process. “I think they blew it completely out of the water,” she said. “To me, it wasn’t serious enough to do that, to go to court.”

That perspective is shared by Makenzie Perkins, the threat assessment supervisor of Collierville Schools, outside of Memphis. She is helping her school district chart a different path in managing alleged social media threats. Perkins has sought specific training on how to sort out credible threats online from thoughtless reposts, allowing her to focus on students who pose real danger instead of punishing everyone.

The charges in Greene County, she said, did not serve a real purpose and indicate a lack of understanding about how to handle these incidents. “You’re never going to suspend, expel or charge your way out of targeted mass violence,” she said. “Did those charges make that school safer? No.”

When 16-year-old D.C. saw an advertisement for an AI video app last October, he eagerly downloaded it and began roasting his friends. In one video he created, his friend stood in the Lincoln County High School cafeteria, his mouth and eyes moving unnaturally as he threatened to shoot up the school and bring a bomb in his backpack. (We are using D.C.’s initials and his dad’s middle name to protect their privacy, because D.C. is a minor.)

D.C. sent it to a private Snapchat group of about 10 friends, hoping they would find it hilarious. After all, they had all teased this friend about his dark clothes and quiet nature. But the friend did not think it was funny. That evening, D.C. showed the video to his dad, Alan, who immediately made him delete it as well as the app. “I explained how it could be misinterpreted, how inappropriate it was in today’s climate,” Alan recalled to ProPublica.

It was too late. One student in the chat had already copied D.C.’s video and sent it to other students on Snapchat, where it began to spread, severed from its initial context.

That evening, a parent reported the video to school officials, who called in local police to do an investigation. D.C. begged his dad to take him to the police station that night, worried the friend in the video would get in trouble — but Alan thought it could wait until morning.

The next day, D.C. rushed to school administrators to explain and apologize. According to Alan, administrators told D.C. they “understood it was a dumb mistake,” uncharacteristic for the straight-A student with no history of disciplinary issues. In a press release, Lincoln County High School said administrators were “made aware of a prank threat that was intended as a joke between friends.”

But later that day, D.C. was expelled from school for a year and charged with a felony for making a threat of mass violence. As an explanation, the sheriff’s deputy wrote in the affidavit, “Above student did create and distribute a video on social media threatening to shoot the school and bring a bomb.”

During a subsequent hearing where D.C. appealed his school expulsion, Lincoln County Schools administrators described their initial panic when seeing the video. Alan shared an audio recording of the hearing with ProPublica. Officials didn’t know that the video was generated by AI until the school counselor saw a small logo in the corner. “Everybody was on pins and needles,” the counselor said at the hearing. “What are we going to do to protect the kids or keep everybody calm the next day if it gets out?” The school district declined to respond to ProPublica’s questions about how officials handled the incident, even though Alan signed a privacy waiver giving them permission to do so.

Alan watched D.C. wither after his expulsion: His girlfriend broke up with him, and some of his friends began to avoid him. D.C. lay awake at night looking through text messages he sent years ago, terrified someone decades later would find something that could ruin his life. “If they are punishing him for creating the image, when does his liability expire?” Alan wondered. “If it’s shared again a year from now, will he be expelled again?”

Alan, a teacher in the school district, coped by voraciously reading court cases and news articles that could shed light on what was happening to his son. He stumbled on a case hundreds of miles north in Pennsylvania, the facts of which were eerily similar to D.C.’s.

In April 2018, two kids, J.S. and his friend, messaged back and forth mocking another student by suggesting he looked like a school shooter. (The court record uses J.S. instead of his full name to protect the student’s anonymity.) J.S. created two memes and sent them to his friend in a private Snapchat conversation. His friend shared the memes publicly on Snapchat, where they were seen by 20 to 40 other students. School administrators permanently expelled J.S., so he and his parents sued the school.

In 2021, after a series of appeals, Pennsylvania’s highest court ruled in J.S.’s favor. While the memes were “mean-spirited, sophomoric, inartful, misguided, and crude,” the state Supreme Court justices wrote in their opinion, they were “plainly not intended to threaten Student One, Student Two, or any other person.”

The justices also shared their sympathy with the challenges schools faced in providing a “safe and quality educational experience” in the modern age. “We recognize that this charge is compounded by technological developments such as social media, which transcend the geographic boundaries of the school. It is a thankless task for which we are all indebted.”

After multiple disciplinary appeals, D.C.’s school upheld the decision to keep him out of school for a year. His parents found a private school that agreed to let him enroll, and he slowly emerged from his depression to continue his straight-A streak there. His charge in court was dismissed in December after he wrote a 500-word essay for the judge on the dangers of social media, according to Alan.

Thinking back on the video months later, D.C. explained that jokes about school violence are common among his classmates. “We try to make fun of it so that it doesn’t seem as serious or like it could really happen,” he said. “It’s just so widespread that we’re all desensitized to it.”

He wonders if letting him back to school would have been more effective in deterring future hoax threats. “I could have gone back to school and said, ‘You know, we can’t make jokes like that because you can get in big trouble for it,’” he said. “I just disappeared for everyone at that school.”

When a school district came across an alarming post on Snapchat in 2023, officials reached out to Safer Schools Together, an organization that helps educators handle school threats. In the post, a pistol flanked by two assault rifles lay on a rumpled white bedsheet. The text overlaid on the photo read, “I’m shooting up central I’m tired of getting picked on everyone is dying tomorrow.”

Steven MacDonald, training manager and development director for Safer Schools Together, recounted this story in a virtual tutorial posted last year on using online tools to trace and manage social media threats. He asked the school officials watching his tutorial what they would do next. “How do we figure out if this is really our student’s bedroom?”

According to MacDonald, it took his organization’s staff only a minute to put the text in quotation marks and run it through Google. A single local news article popped up showing that two kids had been arrested for sharing this exact Snapchat post in Columbia, Tennessee — far from the original district.

“We were able to reach out and respond and say, ‘You know what, this is not targeting your district,’” MacDonald said. Administrators were reassured there was a low likelihood of immediate violence, and they could focus on finding out who was recirculating the old threat and why.

In the training video, MacDonald reviewed skills that, until recently, have been more relevant to police investigators than school principals: How to reverse image search photos of guns to determine whether a post contains a stock image. How to use Snapchat to find contact names for unknown phone numbers. How to analyze the language in the social media posts of a high-risk student.

“We know that why you’re here is because of the increase and the sheer volume of these threats that you may have seen circulated, the non-credible threats that might have even ended up in your districts,” he said. Between last April and this April, Safer Schools Together identified drastic increases in “threat related behavior” and graphic or derogatory social media posts.

Back in the Memphis suburbs, Perkins and other Collierville Schools administrators have attended multiple digital threat assessment training sessions hosted by Safer Schools Together. “I’ve had to learn a lot more apps and social media than I ever thought,” Perkins said.

The knowledge, she said, came in handy during one recent incident in her district. Local police called the district to report that a student had called 911 and reported an Instagram threat targeting a particular school. They sent Perkins a photo of the Instagram profile and username. She began using open source websites to scour the internet for other appearances of the picture and username. She also used a website that allows people to view Instagram stories without alerting the user to gather more information.

With the help of police, Perkins and her team identified that the post was created by someone at the same IP address as the student who had reported the threat. The girl, who was in elementary school, confessed to police that she had done it.

The next day, Perkins and her team interviewed the student, her parents and teachers to understand her motive and goal. “It ended up that there had been some recent viral social media threats going around,” Perkins said. “This individual recognized that it drew in a lot of attention.”

Instead of expelling the girl, school administrators worked with her parents to develop a plan to manage her behavior. They came up with ideas for the girl to receive positive attention while stressing to her family that she had exhibited “extreme behavior” that signaled a need for intensive help. By the end of the day, they had tamped down concerns about immediate violence and created a plan of action.

In many other districts, Perkins said, the girl might have been arrested and expelled for a year without any support — which does not help move students away from the path of violence. “A lot of districts across our state haven’t been trained,” she said. “They’re doing this without guidance.”

Watching the cheerleaders’ TikTok video, it would be easy to miss Allison Bolinger, then the 19-year-old assistant coach. The camera quickly flashes across her standing and smiling in the corner of the room watching the pretend-dead girls.

Bolinger said she and the head coach had been next door planning future rehearsals. Bolinger entered the room soon after the students began filming and “didn’t think anything of it.” Cheerleading practice went forward as usual that afternoon. The next day, she got a call from her dad: The cheerleaders were suspended from school, and Bolinger would have to answer questions from the police.

“I didn’t even know the TikTok was posted. I hadn’t seen it,” she said. “By the time I went to go look for it, it was already taken down.” Bolinger said she ended up losing her job as a result of the incident. She heard whispers around the small community that she was responsible for allowing them to create the video.

Bolinger said she didn’t realize the video was related to school shootings when she was in the room. She often wishes she had asked them at the time to explain the video they were making. “I have beat myself up about that so many times,” she said. “Then again, they’re also children. If they don’t make it here, they’ll probably make it at home.”

Jackson, the grandmother of the 11-year-old in the video, blames Bolinger for not stopping the middle schoolers and faults the police for overreacting. She said all the students, whether or not their families hired a lawyer, got the same punishment in court: three months of probation for a misdemeanor disorderly conduct charge, which could be extended if their grades dropped or they got in trouble again. Each family had to pay more than $100 in court costs, Jackson said, a significant amount for some.

Jackson’s granddaughter successfully completed probation, which also involved writing and submitting a letter of apology to the judge. She was too scared about getting in trouble again to continue on the cheerleading team for the rest of the school year.

Jackson thinks that officials’ outsize response to the video made everything worse. “They shouldn’t even have done nothing until they investigated it, instead of making them out to be terrorists and traumatizing these girls,” she said.