Vegas Judge Had Long History of Prosecutorial Misconduct
The behavior of Bill Kephart, who led the murder prosecution of Fred Steese, was repeatedly lambasted by the Supreme Court of Nevada. But that didn’t stop him from becoming a judge. This month he was charged with misconduct in that position too.
by Megan Rose, ProPublica
In the legal world, prosecutors are rarely called out by name. Their misconduct is usually attributed to unidentified prosecutors or the “State” in rulings by appellate judges. But as a Las Vegas prosecutor, Bill Kephart — now a judge — achieved a dubious distinction: He was chastised publicly.
The Supreme Court of Nevada took the rare step in 2001 of ordering him to prove why he shouldn’t be sanctioned for his behavior in one of his cases with a fine or a referral to the state bar for “violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct.” The ruling was disseminated statewide and, in Kephart’s own words, “professionally embarrassed” him. In his response, he wrote that the ruling had “already had a great impact” on him and promised that there wouldn’t be “a bona fide allegation of prosecutorial misconduct against me in the future.” The justices nevertheless fined him $250.
The Supreme Court’s rebuke was particularly notable in Nevada, where the judges are elected and part of the state’s insular legal community. They typically rule unanimously and seldom come down too hard on prosecutors. As one retired chief justice put it: “Picking fights with district attorneys might not be the best thing for [a judge’s] career continuation.” But Kephart’s behavior challenged that status quo, compelling one or more of the justices to issue dissents in several cases, saying his behavior called for convictions to be overturned.
Overall, the Nevada high court has noted prosecutorial misconduct in at least five of his cases over a dozen years, not including his actions during the trial of Fred Steese — who was tried by Kephart for a 1992 murder and ruled innocent 20 years later after exculpatory evidence was found in the prosecution’s files. In the cases in which Kephart is not named, he is the prosecutor whose misconduct is cited:
In 1996, the court noted “several instances of prosecutorial misconduct” in a sexual assault case. The conviction was upheld, but one justice dissented, saying that Kephart had “infected” an already “muddled case” and it warranted reversal. (In 2001, a judge granted the defendant an evidentiary hearing and he was released.)
In 1997, the court reversed the murder convictions of two men based entirely on the “deliberate” and “improper comments” made by the prosecution during cross examination and closing argument. The DA’s office had sought the death penalty, which in Nevada increases costs by about a half million dollars on average, making this and other reversals based on Kephart’s behavior expensive screw-ups for taxpayers. (Both men were retried and convicted again in 1998, one sentenced to life in prison and the other to death.)
In 2001, in the case he was fined $250, the court said Kephart gave the jury a misleading explanation of the standard for reasonable doubt when he instructed them: “you have a gut feeling he’s guilty, he’s guilty.” A justice said at a hearing that the remark seemed “like deliberate misrepresentation.” The court upheld the conviction, but noted that Kephart’s “improper remark was particularly reprehensible because this is a capital case and the remark was gratuitous and patently inadequate to convey to the jury its duty…”
In 2002, the court took issue with Kephart for assaulting a witness. During the trial of a sexual assault case, Kephart said he wanted to demonstrate how the victim said she was choked, pressing his forearm into the defendant’s neck while he was on the stand. The court upheld the verdict, but noted there was “absolutely no reason” for Kephart’s behavior, which went “well beyond the accepted bounds of permissible advocacy.” One justice dissented, saying “the instances of prosecutorial misconduct were pervasive and substantial…an accused who takes the stand runs many risks. One of them should not be that the prosecutor would physically assault him or her.”
In 2008, the court tossed out a murder conviction in another death penalty case, saying, among other issues, the prosecution’s misconduct was “significant” and “occurred throughout the trial,” including Kephart’s remarks during jury selection and in closing. One judge dissented, saying the prosecutorial misconduct and other issues didn’t require reversal. (The defendant eventually pled guilty in 2014.)
In 2002, Kephart prosecuted another highly contested murder case against Kirstin Lobato, then 19, which has garnered national outcry for the meager and sometimes contradictory evidence against her. Lobato was recently granted an evidentiary hearing and is represented by the Innocence Project. This month, the prosecuting officer for the Nevada Commission on Judicial Discipline filed misconduct charges against Kephart for a media interview he gave about the case last year, in which he said it “was completely justice done.” Kephart’s “statements could affect the outcome or impair the fairness of Miss Lobato’s case,” according to the formal statement of charges. The statement said Kephart violated several rules of the judicial code of conduct. He has not yet filed a reply.
Kephart, who joined the DA’s office in the early 1990s as a brash young attorney, once got in a shoving match with a defense attorney. Another time a judge had to admonish him for repeatedly shaking his head, making faces and rolling his eyes. His behavior eventually led to minor reprimands from the Clark County District Attorney’s Office, according to several people who worked with him during that time. In 2002, after Kephart’s reasonable-doubt flub, the entire DA’s office had to complete a two-hour ethics course and continuing legal education classes, which the deputy district attorneys tagged the “Kephart CLE.” That same year, Kephart was briefly banned from trials. Regardless, he later became a chief deputy.
Kephart also was called before the state bar for his behavior in Steese’s murder trial, but, according to lawyers at the hearing, his boss made an appeal on behalf of him and the other prosecutor on the case, and neither was sanctioned.
Kephart declined several requests for comment.
Despite these repeated critiques of his conduct, Kephart was voted onto the bench in 2010 as a justice of the peace and in 2014 moved to the Eighth Judicial District Court of Nevada, where he today he presides over civil, construction and criminal cases.
Fred Steese served more than 20 years in prison for the murder of a Vegas showman even though evidence in the prosecution’s files proved he didn’t do it. But when the truth came to light, he was offered a confounding deal known as an Alford plea. If he took it he could go free, but he’d remain a convicted killer.
Fred Steese, Inmate No. 45595, often gazed at the 18-wheelers rumbling by the state prison on a desolate stretch of highway outside Las Vegas, yearning to be behind the wheel. Lying in his bunk in Cell Block A, Unit 7, he’d picture himself double-clutching down hills, filling out the logbook, expertly backing up as he made deliveries. Semis had been an obsession since he’d begun hitching rides with truckers between stints with foster families and in group homes. By 16 he’d stolen his first big rig. Now middle-aged, Steese treasured a commercial driver’s license manual, so well-used it was held together by tape.
As a lifer, however, he knew that even this modest ambition was out of reach. In 1992, a once famous trapeze artist who’d moved on to performing with a costumed poodle act on the Strip had been found murdered, stabbed dozens of times in his trailer on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Police found a prime suspect in Steese, a drifter with a record, who for a short time had been the victim’s lover and assistant, and who, after protesting that he was innocent, offered a confession.
But there was evidence Steese had been 670 miles away at the time — and prosecutors in Las Vegas didn’t share it. The prosecutors went on to win seats as state district court judges, where they still sit. Steese went to prison for life with no possibility of parole. That would have remained his fate except that, somehow, in a life with few breaks, Steese finally caught one. Prodded by his original attorney, the federal public defender sent a team burrowing into the prosecution’s files and ultimately dismantled its case.
In October 2012, a judge declared that Steese, after 20 years in prison, was innocent. It was an extraordinary ruling — in fact, unprecedented in that court. But the Clark County district attorney was not willing to free Steese. Prosecutors vowed to put him through lengthy appeals. Even to re-try him. The process would take years. Or, if Steese just wanted to be released, the prosecutors had a tantalizing proposition: he could agree to an Alford plea. In a feat of logical gymnastics, this obscure plea allows defendants to maintain their innocence while at the same time pleading guilty and accepting the status of a convicted felon. And, perhaps most damaging to prisoners like Steese, after decades behind bars, the plea meant giving up the right to sue. It would also allow prosecutors to keep a “win” on the books, admit no wrongdoing, and avoid civil and criminal sanctions for their behavior. In exchange for all this, the prosecution in Las Vegas would let Steese go.
In legal circles, prosecutorial misconduct is viewed by many as a pervasive problem — an “epidemic,” as one prominent federal judge called it in 2013. Jurisdictions large and small are riddled with corrupt practices. Misconduct lies behind more than half of all cases nationwide in which convicted defendants are ultimately exonerated, according to the National Registry of Exonerations. Driven by a win-at-all-costs culture, such misbehavior is especially hard to root out because, many experts say, there’s little incentive to play by the rules. Appellate courts often sweep misconduct aside as harmless. Top prosecutors, burnishing their own careers, rarely punish underlings for it — and indeed they often flourish, going on to become judges reluctant to police their former peers. And the law gives prosecutors broad immunity from civil lawsuits, even when their bad behavior lands the wrong people in prison.
Fred Steese’s case exposed the rot in the system that robbed him of two decades of his life. Yet even then prosecutors worked to keep it hidden, forcing him into an almost incomprehensible choice: Risk freedom to fight for an uncertain exoneration that might take years, or cop to a crime he didn’t commit and walk away.
II. Death of a Poodle Master
Dan Winters for Vanity Fair
Lucky the Clown, a 123-foot-tall blast of frenzied neon, has greeted visitors to the Strip since 1976. With its massive grin and pinwheel lollipop, the marquee beckons gamblers inside the striped big top at the Circus Circus hotel and casino. In 1992, low rollers fed cups of change into slot machines while acrobats swung overhead. A rotating lineup of circus performers did free shows on a small dark stage on the second floor until midnight. Passersby would stop to watch before moving along to the $2.99 dinner buffet. Among the performers was a faded but still handsome dog trainer with the bearing of a dancer, often dressed elaborately in sequined tails and matching bow tie. Gerard Soules, known as Jerry, was circus royalty of sorts, a trapeze artist who had traveled the world, performing for the queen of England and dazzling the crowd in the Ringling Bros. center ring. A preening showman, he had worn a cape that he would fling open before beginning the 40-foot climb to the pedestal. From there he’d launch his daring signature move, a somersault forward off the trapeze, catching himself by his heels at the last second on the bar of the same trapeze.
Soules had grown up devoutly Catholic in 1940s blue-collar Michigan. When he came out as gay to his mother as a teenager, his family defied expectations by supporting him. Soules left home at 16 to join the circus. After a trapeze accident in his late 20s, he reinvented himself as the ringmaster of a pack of well-dressed poodles. In 1992, Soules took his act to Circus Circus, where, six days a week, his 14 poodles hopped on their hind legs across the stage: One in a poncho and sombrero to a Mexican march, another to a can-can with her dress attached to her front paws, Moulin Rouge-style, still others wearing three-foot-tall hats or giant hoopskirts — all of the outfits handstitched by Soules himself.
Despite the act’s popularity, Soules had lost his spirit. The casino wouldn’t let him stay at its own RV park with his poodles, so he was banished to the Silver Nugget Camperland, in much less desirable North Las Vegas. And he’d been living in a heartbroken fog since his partner of decades had died, several years earlier. Eager for companionship, the 55-year-old had recently taken to helping young men in need.
One May day, Soules had spied Fred Steese, disheveled and dirty, his hair bleached sandy blond by the sun. He was holding a WILL WORK FOR FOOD sign. Soules leaned out the window of his truck and offered to take Steese for a meal. Even in faded jeans too big for his lean frame, Steese had blue-eyed good looks, with an easy smile and a loud laugh that rose along the scales and made him seem younger than he really was. Over dinner, Soules revealed that he was gay. Steese shrugged his shoulders and told him that he himself was bisexual. Steese was familiar with the scene — he’d hustled gay men for food, money or companionship most of his life. The previous month, another middle-aged man had picked him up along a Pennsylvania highway. That man, Rick Rock, enjoyed Steese enough that he paid for a bus ticket and told him to call collect whenever he wanted. And Steese did, often. He liked having someone who cared.
Steese had more or less been on his own since his mother had abandoned him, when he was 10, and he bounced through 37 foster placements. As a teen, he wandered into a hobo camp outside Phoenix, where an old-timer introduced him to riding the rails. Alone on the road, he held tight to the memory of the Busses, the one foster family who’d shown him any love, twice sheltering him at their dairy farm outside Austin — even including him in a formal family portrait. He’d been chasing that connection ever since, smoothing over his past with grandiose lies to gain acceptance and prop up his self-image.
He struck up an affair with Soules and became his assistant. The dog trainer had just fired his latest one, Alexander Kolupaev, a Russian defector with receding red hair who was always short on cash and had rebuffed Soules’s overtures. Just as Steese was settling in, the event manager told him he needed a work permit for his job at the casino. Steese knew that was the end. He was wanted for violating parole in Florida, and he’d been using the alias Fred Burke.
“Listen, I’m going to go ahead and move on because there ain’t no sense in me being here, because I can’t make no money,” Steese told Soules, according to testimony. Steese panhandled enough cash for liquor and a speedball and then hopped a train heading north.
Six days later, when Soules didn’t show up for work, his boss went to the RV park to investigate and heard the usually quiet dogs barking excitedly. He banged on the door, calling Soules’ name, before fetching a security guard. Inside detectives found Soules’s belongings scattered around the trailer. The plaid window valance had been yanked down. The TV-and-VCR cabinet was empty. Blood soaked the mattress and trailed across the length of the trailer to the bathroom, where Soules lay naked, his face covered by an orange towel. More blood splattered the bathroom mirror, the counter, the toilet, the tub. Soules’ throat had been slashed, and he’d been stabbed so many times that the coroner stopped counting at 35.
Gerard “Jerry” Soules became a star in the 1950s and earned a place in the Circus Hall of Fame for his forward somersault off the trapeze. He then had a popular second act, traveling the world with his “Poodles de Paree” dog show. Soules was killed in Las Vegas in June 1992. (Courtesy Soules family)
III. The Confession
Two North Las Vegas Police detectives shut Steese in a small interrogation room and placed a questionnaire about the murder in front of him on the metal table. Forty-five minutes later, he’d written just a handful of paragraphs, riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes, in one place fumbling even his own name as “Fredrick,” without the second “e.”
“I thing I was in New Plymouth, ID.”
Throughout his childhood, Steese had scored between 70 and 80 on IQ tests, putting him at the very bottom of normal range. He had only the GED he’d earned recently while imprisoned for a hapless bank robbery. Steese wrote that he didn’t have any reason to hurt Soules.
“I have never been to know a friend that has gotten killed.”
The detectives had been tipped to Steese after a letter from Rick Rock arrived at Soules’ trailer. When contacted, detectives said, Rock told them that Steese had revealed knowledge of a morbid, if not quite accurate, detail of the murder: that Soules had been stabbed more than 100 times. When detectives finally reached Steese by phone, he agreed to return to Las Vegas. Then he’d drunkenly hopped a train going in the wrong direction, ending up in Wisconsin, where he stole a semi truck and drove nearly 30 hours straight through to Nevada. There he was pulled over and arrested.
In the interrogation room, Steese repeatedly told the skeptical and increasingly angry detectives that he hadn’t murdered Soules. When one yelled that he was lying, Steese jumped up and backed away from the table. “Do you want to hear a story? OK. I don’t know nothing about the murder, but I’ll tell you a story,” Steese testified he had told them. He went on to say that Soules had tied him up and tried to sexually assault him with a plunger. But after detectives prodded him with details from the murder scene that showed that his story couldn’t have happened, Steese stumbled through several more scenarios.
Around 10 p.m., after nearly five hours of interrogation, Steese signed a confession, looping the final “e” in Steese back through the letters. It was his sixth version of events. At this point he hadn’t slept since before he left Wisconsin.
Steese’s 1992 mugshot after he was arrested for the murder of Gerard Soules. He would be imprisoned for nearly 21 years.
IV. But He Wasn’t There
Las Vegas in the early 90s was at the start of a boom. Gated subdivisions were eating up the desert and ever more luxe resorts were springing up on the Strip. But Vegas hadn’t lost its frontier spirit; in some ways it was still the Wild West.
Clark County’s district attorney, Rex Bell Jr., embodied that spirit, with his slow drawl, cowboy boots and plug of tobacco in his cheek. The son of Rex Bell Sr., an actor in Westerns, and silent-film legend Clara Bow, he saw himself as the protector of Las Vegas. He sometimes even wore a white hat. Bell, though, was more politician than practicing lawyer, and he left the running of the criminal division to his number two, Bill Koot, a gruff former Marine and Vietnam veteran. Deputy DAs who didn’t pursue harsh enough sentences or lost too often at trial were exiled to the age-old prosecutor doghouse: juvenile court.
The office had a frat-house looseness — it wasn’t unusual, former prosecutors recalled, for a pack to leave at one p.m. on a Friday to go drinking or to a strip club — but the atmosphere belied a cutthroat culture. On a whiteboard by the receptionist’s desk was a grid listing the trials in progress. A “not guilty” was an embarrassment that stayed on display for a week. Young attorneys started out in an assigned courtroom with scant training and worked whatever cases came through. The most ambitious chased homicides, prosecuted by the Major Violators Unit.
Among the young deputies gunning for the top, and a Koot favorite, was William Kephart, a rough local boy from a blue-collar part of town. Kephart had the gregariousness of a beefy high school jock giving high-fives in the halls.
He was known to prosecute with a sometimes unrestrained passion. Kephart was widely viewed, even by his friends, as guided more by ambition than by talent or smarts — “not a man for subtlety or nuance,” according to one of his former colleagues. His reputation for recklessness in and out of the courtroom earned him the nickname “Wild Bill.” He had his sights set on the MVU.
The case of the slain “Poodle King,” as the press had nicknamed Gerard Soules, hit the overworked DA’s office at the perfect time for Kephart. An experienced prosecutor had dropped out, handing the eager deputy a death penalty case, wrapped in the bow of a confession. But more than two years later, when Kephart was finally gearing up for trial, the case looked very different. Steese’s defense team had assembled an extensive alibi with 14 witnesses and 10 items of documentary evidence that they were sure proved Steese was nowhere near Soules’ trailer at the time of the murder.
Kephart and an investigator headed to Idaho in October 1994 to do their best to unravel Steese’s alibi. There they devised a new explanation. One witness noted that Steese had mentioned that he sometimes used the name “Robert.” Another said Steese had told him a couple of times that he had to call his brother. Then Kephart found a Salvation Army assistance form from June 8 that listed a “Fred Burke” and a “Robert” as receiving $10.
Back at the office, they confirmed their suspicions: Steese had a look-alike brother named Robert, who lived in Texas. Kephart and his team came up with a theory: It wasn’t Steese in Idaho; it was Robert — all part of a grand scheme to give Steese an alibi. The witnesses who thought they had met “Fred Burke” in Wyoming and Idaho had really met Robert. Then the real Fred had high-tailed it to Idaho after the murder, and that’s when they’d turned up together at the Salvation Army. The beauty of this theory was that nobody involved knew anything about Robert Steese. He could be anyone prosecutors wanted him to be.
A week or so before trial, Douglas Herndon, 30 years old and three years into his tenure at the DA’s office, joined the case as Kephart’s second. A private-law-school grad, and one of the few in the office not from Las Vegas, Herndon was seen as an astute prosecutor. His first thought in reviewing the case was “Wow, I’ve never seen that many alibi witnesses before. How is that going to affect things?” They had no evidence to prove that Robert Steese had been in Idaho, and they had serious conflicts with the timeline. The “Robert” theory was at odds with Steese’s confession that his drunken decision to rob Soules was last-minute and that he killed him only because Soules had woken up. Documents placed “Fred Burke” in Wyoming on May 31, so Steese would have had to set the alibi plan in motion three days in advance of a spur-of-the moment burglary.
But because the prosecutors were already convinced that Steese had committed the murder, to them the alibi must simply be wrong — the documents fishy, the witnesses lying or mistaken. And quite possibly there was a conspiracy. Kephart and Herndon would tell the jury that Steese’s alibi was a fantasy.
V. “Trial by Ambush”
Steese’s trial began in January 1995 and quickly devolved into a brawl, peppered with accusations of prosecutorial misbehavior. James Erbeck, a well-known private lawyer and former assistant U.S. attorney, had been appointed to represent Steese, along with California transplant Nancy Masters, new to both Vegas and to lawyering. Erbeck walked in on the first day with confidence — even though a 70-year-old defense witness had already sworn in an affidavit that Kephart had tried to dissuade her from testifying. Steese had such a strong defense that Erbeck actually cautioned Masters not to think it was typically so easy. That mood dissipated when Erbeck found himself filing motion after motion to dismiss, including for “outrageous prosecutorial misconduct,” only to have each motion batted away by District Court Judge Don Chairez, a rookie in his first year on the bench. Chairez had been working for the DA when Steese’s prosecution began, three years earlier.
Erbeck’s sense of impotence grew as the trial progressed. He discovered only during testimony that two prosecution witnesses had identified Steese, from photo lineups that included Robert, as the man they’d seen in Idaho. This fact undermined the “Robert” theory and Kephart and Herndon had sought to conceal it. Kephart had also shown his own last-minute star witness, a neighbor of Soules’ named Michael Moore, a potentially misleading photo array. Moore subsequently identified Steese in court as having been at Soules’ trailer the night of the murder — even though he had told police at the time that the man he’d seen had been short, had red hair and was balding. That description fit Kolupaev, who had been convicted of a jewelry heist shortly after the murder and would eventually be deported. Kolupaev was never investigated further.
At Moore’s testimony, Erbeck had leapt to his feet, railing that it was “trial by ambush,” and telling the court that the lineup Kephart had shown Moore was the most suggestive he’d seen in his career. Each photo had a booking date, but only Steese’s was from the year of the murder. “They have totally tainted the jury,” Erbeck told Chairez. “Look at this lineup. One man in ’92, everyone else in ’93, ’94. The other five couldn’t commit the crime.”
Steese and his lawyer Nancy Masters (now Lemcke) in the Las Vegas courtroom where he was tried for first-degree murder in 1995. (Steve Marcus/Las Vegas Sun)
By the time it was Erbeck’s turn, Kephart and Herndon had painted Steese as a conniving killer who had, according to a jailhouse snitch, repeated his confession while incarcerated. But one key prosecution witness was conspicuously absent from the stand. Steese’s friend Rick Rock had been flown in to testify regarding Steese’s alleged comment about the number of stab wounds, but as an older single man living in rural Pennsylvania, Rock was protective of his private life and wasn’t eager to cooperate. He also dodged Erbeck and Masters, who were desperate to talk to him about whether Steese had called him from Idaho at the time of the murder. Then the prosecution abruptly sent him home, telling the defense nothing. Masters asked Kephart for Rock’s unlisted number, but she says Kephart told her she’d have to get a court order. Kephart said he sent her to the witness-support office and told that office to get Rock’s permission first.
To Erbeck, Steese’s defense was simple: He wasn’t in the state at the time of the murder and couldn’t have killed Soules. He’d falsely confessed because he was tired, coming down off drugs, frightened and of low intelligence. The documentary evidence backed up Steese’s and the witnesses’ claims. He’d left a long trail from May 31 to June 8, using the alias “Fred Burke.”
Steese testified that after he had left Las Vegas he stopped in Salt Lake City, then bumped into a man named Ron Bouttier in the train yard in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Steese took him to the local Salvation Army, and they scrawled their names on the “Monday, May 31” sign-in sheet. On the Burke signature, he’d looped the “e” back through the name with a line, in his typical fashion. Steese testified that Bouttier had invited him to his grandparents’ in Idaho, until he could get back on his feet. “That was the best offer I had in a long time,” Steese testified. “I didn’t have nowhere to go, so I says ‘all right.’ We got along real good at the time, and so we jumped on a train.”
Bouttier’s family and others Steese met there identified him in court, though two were shaky at first and needed a second chance on the stand. Steese had gained nearly 70 pounds by the time the trial started. In Idaho, he had gone to two employment help centers, and on one job application, on June 4, he used as a reference the name of his beloved foster parent: “Albert Busse.” A few days later, he and Bouttier got into a fight, and Steese took off, showing up on June 8 at the Salvation Army, where he put down two names on the welfare assistance form because, as an employee testified, she would give him double that way, even if he was alone.
Kephart, speaking in a folksy style that juries liked, used his rebuttal to spin out the “Robert” theory, even though Robert himself was never produced. He called to the stand his investigator, who contradicted many of Steese’s alibi witnesses and accused several of lying. Kephart insinuated that any defense documents that were copies could be forgeries. He even made his own, blown-up version of the Salvation Army sign-in sheet, but instead of Steese’s signature, it was his own, “as an example to the jury to show how documents can be manipulated and why you need originals.” Accusing the defense of presenting doctored evidence was a shocking tactic, but it was consistent with Kephart’s perceived willingness to go to nearly any length to get a conviction. Two of his murder convictions from the prior year would soon be thrown out by the Supreme Court of Nevada for “improper” and “deliberate” comments.
Whatever Steese was saying now, Kephart and Herndon argued, the original confession should be trusted. The jury deliberated for almost two full days before rendering a guilty verdict. After the trial, the prosecutors dropped the death penalty, but Steese was sentenced to two life sentences without parole.
Left: A promotional photo of Soules for the Ice Capades in 1988. Right: Soules, bottom center, with other Circus Circus performers in 1992, only weeks before his death. (Courtesy Soules family)
VI. The Unraveling Begins
Nancy Masters — now married and known as Nancy Lemcke — was distraught. She felt as if she had failed. She called every PO box center in Rick Rock’s town to track down his new address and wrote one last letter begging him to contact her. When he finally called, Lemcke told him his phone records could prove that Steese had called him from Idaho. Rock, baffled, said the prosecutors already had a copy of the records. Lemcke couldn’t believe it. Had Kephart and Herndon concealed key evidence in a death penalty case? Hadn’t they seen the calls to Rock from Wyoming on May 31 and from Idaho on June 3 (the likely day of the murder) and June 5 that would exonerate Steese?
The U.S. Supreme Court, in the landmark case Brady vs. Maryland, long ago established that prosecutors must turn over any evidence favorable to the defense; withholding it violates a defendant’s right to a fair trial. Erbeck fired off a motion, asking the judge for a new trial and also asking the court to sanction Kephart and Herndon so that this will “not happen again in Clark County.”
In responding affidavits, both prosecutors claimed the records were irrelevant because they said Rock told them those calls were from business associates. Lemcke thought it should have been obvious that wasn’t true, especially since Rock had made a Western Union money transfer to one of Steese’s alibi witnesses on the same day he had received four of the collect calls. After Steese was arrested, on June 18, the only collect calls Rock received were from the county jail, up to eight a day. Herndon conceded that the records showed Rock “wasn’t telling us everything he knew.” But they had flown him home and never mentioned the phone records to the defense.
Erbeck referred the prosecutors to the Nevada State Bar, which investigated and found enough troubling behavior to merit an official hearing — a rarity. But the newly elected district attorney, Stewart Bell, a prominent lawyer who was not related to his predecessor, showed up to argue on their behalf. The matter went away. (Bell didn’t respond to several requests for comment.) Herndon and Kephart moved up to the DA’s elite teams: Herndon joined the relatively new Special Victims Unit, and Kephart made it to the Major Violators Unit.
In 1998, the Supreme Court of Nevada, which rarely split, denied Steese’s appeal in a 3-2 decision. The majority ruled that the state’s “case against Steese was strong” and that no Brady violation had occurred because the defense could have found the phone records on its own. The dissenting judges believed that the prosecutors had skirted the rules and that Steese’s conviction should be reversed. The decision slammed shut most legal doors, leaving Steese to languish in a maximum security prison.
Nancy Lemcke, a Clark County public defender, not far from where Soules was stabbed to death in his trailer in North Las Vegas. (Dan Winters for Vanity Fair)
Kephart, meanwhile, continued to build a successful career despite misconduct that drew repeated criticism from the state’s highest court throughout his tenure. His colleagues dismissed any dark intent, likening him to an excitable Labrador who stole turkey off the table because he didn’t know any better. But in 2001 the Nevada Supreme Court justices called Kephart out by name in a misconduct ruling — an uncommon rebuke. Appellate judges typically blame misdeeds on “the State” or “the prosecutor.”
“Now either he doesn’t want to learn, or he’s a very slow learner,” a justice said in a hearing, expressing dismay that “the district attorney’s office just continues to let him try major cases and give us these problems.” The court forced Kephart to show why he shouldn’t be sanctioned, and Bell again came to his rescue. Apart from being briefly benched from trials, former colleagues said, Kephart faced no consequences. He went on to have yet another case overturned in 2008, partly as a result of his misconduct. Then, in 2010, campaigning to become justice of the peace as a law-and-order stalwart, Kephart made it to the judicial ranks alongside Herndon, who had previously been appointed to the bench. As Kephart took office, Steese had been in prison for more than 18 years.
VII. An Arduous Path
The San Antonio parking lot shimmered in the May heat, and Abigail Goldman chafed against the fabric seats of her rental car, hours into a sweltering stakeout of a strip mall. Goldman, 29, an investigator for the federal public defender’s office in Las Vegas, was on the hunt for Steese’s long-lost brother.
When Goldman joined the office, in 2010, Steese had been pointed out among the 30 cases in her stack as something special — an innocent man. Steese had recently had a new breakthrough, and a judge would soon re-examine his alibi, in particular the alleged involvement of Robert Steese. Now, in 2011, Goldman just had to find him. She had nothing more than a three-year-old address, but the trailer park manager there had given her a small clue: Steese’s wife worked at a nearby Office Depot. Goldman had been watching the store for almost a full day. Earlier she had crisscrossed Nampa, Idaho, to link two phone numbers from Rock’s records to the pay phones Steese said he had used. But the prosecutors could still argue that Robert Steese had made those calls. As she sat sweating and second-guessing herself, a dark-haired woman in the telltale red polo of an Office Depot employee hurried out. Maybe that’s my girl, Goldman thought, instinctively ducking her head as if that made her inconspicuous as she drove three mph behind the woman. The slow-motion chase ended at the scene of a car accident down the street, where one of the drivers looked a lot like Fred Steese. Goldman leapt out, launching into a fast-paced pitch about needing his help.
“The last time I saw my brother, I was nine years old. I’m 41 now,” Robert Steese said. He didn’t want anything to do with the case, and his wife adamantly told Goldman to go away. An annoyed cop shooed her off. Goldman realized a few days later that the stakeout was more productive than she had thought: The accident report listed Robert Steese’s current address. Fred Steese’s lawyers now had a way to subpoena him.
A freshly minted federal public defender, Ryan Norwood toiled in one of law’s toughest jobs for some of its poorest clients: habeas corpus. His task was to help destitute prisoners essentially sue the government for wrongful imprisonment. Norwood, 33, whose neat beard and natty three-piece suits stood out among his rumpled peers, had landed Steese’s case after Nancy Lemcke repeatedly pushed for help. The situation was a legal minefield. For one thing, the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996, which has become so loathed that even some conservative judges have called for its repeal, gave prisoners one year to file a habeas suit. States such as Nevada had the same practice. So, in both state and federal court, Steese was long since out of time. Norwood had petitioned both — and had lost in both, until 2010, when the Supreme Court of Nevada stepped in and ordered a local judge to hear Steese out.
There was only one arduous path around the time limit: actually proving Steese innocent. Norwood had to show that there was new, compelling evidence that cast doubt on Steese’s conviction. So while Goldman scoured everything publicly available, Norwood fought to get his hands on the prosecution’s file. And in the end he succeeded: District Court Judge Elissa Cadish, who was presiding over the case, ordered the DA to hand it over.
In her office, Goldman scrolled through the 2,440 pages of documents on a CD. Forty pages of voir dire. Police reports. Steese’s criminal history in Utah. Stop. At the top of page 923: “Union Pacific Railroad Police.” Goldman leaned in for a closer look at the old-fashioned dot-matrix document on the screen. There were several “field interrogation reports” that the railroad police filed when they caught people illegally on the trains or in the rail yard. There was one for “Frederick Lee Burke” in Salt Lake City on May 29, and there were two for “Fred Lee Burke, Jr.” on May 31 in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Here was evidence that put Steese out of state five days before the murder — evidence that matched Steese’s testimony at trial.
“I got thrown off the train,” he had testified. “They got bulls.”
“Bulls?”
“ … We call them the bulls. That’s what the hobo term is. What they are is, they’re railroad security … and if they catch you riding the train they’ll ask you your name and write it down and then kick you off the train.”
Down the hall, Norwood also dug into Steese’s file and uncovered several letters the DA’s office had written on behalf of the jailhouse informant which seemed to contradict Kephart and Herndon’s claim at trial that he’d received no benefit for his testimony. Kephart had also repeatedly elicited testimony from the informant during trial that allowed him to hide his criminal past.
Before long, yet another disturbing discovery came to light when the DA’s office gave Norwood a copy of a National Crime Information Center report on Robert Steese. The report showed that on May 25, June 1, and June 4, 1992, Texas authorities had run Robert’s name through the system — which typically occurs when an individual is stopped by police. That would mean Robert Steese was in Texas at the time the prosecution had argued he was impersonating his brother in Idaho. And it looked to Norwood as if Kephart and Herndon had known this at the time of the trial. Their investigator had testified that he “went through NCIC.” as part of an “extensive investigation” into the whereabouts of Robert Steese but claimed that the search turned up next to nothing. The DA’s office contended it hadn’t known about the stops at the time of the trial, arguing that its investigator hadn’t done as broad a search or that the stops had been inexplicably added to the system later.
Norwood says he had not seen misconduct on this scale before and believed that any one of the discoveries proved Steese innocent. But Pamela Weckerly, a 16-year veteran prosecutor who was now handling Steese’s case at the DA’s office in Las Vegas, refused to budge.
VIII. “I Killed Gerard Soules”
Ryan Norwood, a federal public defender, in the parking garage of his Las Vegas office. Norwood worked for four years to prove Steese’s innocence and free him from prison. (Dan Winters for Vanity Fair)
Fred Steese’s only chance now lay in four daylong hearings — dragged out over more than 16 months — to prove that his brother had nothing to do with his alibi. At the first hearing, in June 2011, Robert Steese’s former boss, co-workers and acquaintances from the early 90s all testified that he was in Texas at the time of the murder and laughed at the notion of him hitchhiking or jumping trains, saying he was too lazy and unambitious for that. Five months later, Robert Steese himself testified, telling the court he hadn’t seen Fred since he was a child, had never been to Idaho or Wyoming and didn’t so much as know Fred’s birthday.
“I didn’t even know he was still living,” Steese testified.
At the next hearing, in January 2012, the hallway outside Cadish’s courtroom crawled with defense attorneys. Word had spread that Herndon and Kephart might be testifying — and cross-examined. Herndon was up first, and Norwood seized the opportunity to ask him about the document with the Union Pacific reports.
“I believe I’ve seen it before, yeah.”
Herndon said he didn’t think he had the reports at trial; nevertheless, he was still ethically bound to turn them over later, and the records could have made the difference in Steese’s 1998 appeal. Herndon then rejected even the most basic realities of Steese’s case.
“There was somebody up in Idaho during that week calling himself ‘Fred Burke,’” Norwood prodded. “Can we agree on that?”
“I’m not prepared to even agree on that.”
Norwood was dumbfounded. Seventeen years earlier, Herndon had argued to a jury that Robert Steese had been in Idaho creating a false alibi, even saying in his closing he had “no doubt” about it. Now he was contending that Steese’s alibi witnesses might have helped orchestrate an 11-day, multi-state conspiracy and forged 10 different official documents. “What I’m saying, very bluntly,” Herndon testified, “is that I didn’t believe a whole hell of a lot of what the people from Idaho had to say.” Weckerly never called Kephart to testify.
In October 2012, Norwood and Weckerly each made their final arguments. Steese sat in his blue prison garb in a near empty courtroom, cheerful as always, but with few expectations. Norwood had warned him that the wait was far from over. Cadish would likely take a few months to make a decision.
Norwood’s hour-and-a-half speech had the passionate feel of a trial lawyer beseeching a jury.
“Robert is a red herring here. The Robert Steese theory, however good it might have looked to the jury, can’t be the explanation for what happened, because Robert wasn’t in Idaho,” Norwood said. Later, with an uncharacteristic dramatic flair, Norwood announced, “At this point, I want to make a confession of my own. I killed Gerard Soules.” He was in high school in Pennsylvania at the time, but “at this point there is precisely as much reliable evidence that I committed this murder as there is that Fred Steese committed the murder,” he said. “In fact, I have to say that in some ways that my confession is a little more reliable. I just made this confession in open court. I didn’t make it after spending four hours in a room with two police detectives where who knows what happened. Unlike Fred, I can’t prove that I was someplace else on June the 3rd and June 4th in 1992.”
What Steese has provided, Norwood concluded, is “probably the most extensive alibi that’s ever been proven by somebody in this state.”
In stark contrast to Norwood, Weckerly was brief, arguing that a jury had heard “98 percent” of the evidence Norwood presented and still found Steese guilty. By law, she said, “it’s not our burden at this point to explain anything.” She refused Norwood’s challenge to answer the most basic question: If Robert Steese wasn’t involved, then what now is the state’s theory of the crime?
It was clear, Norwood told Cadish, that Weckerly wouldn’t concede Steese didn’t kill Soules, because that “would be admitting that an innocent man has been behind bars for 20 years … that justice wasn’t done in this case … that … the killer [wasn’t] found.”
Norwood fully expected Cadish to conclude the hearing by announcing that she would take the arguments under advisement. Instead, without any fanfare, she said she believed the testimony from Robert Steese and from those who knew him with “no dog in the fight.” Norwood and Fred Steese sat up a little straighter in their chairs. The more Cadish spoke about new, reliable evidence, the more Norwood realized not only that she was about to issue a ruling but that it would be what he’d hoped for over the last four years. He put his hand on Fred’s shoulder.
“Given everything additional that we now know,” Cadish said, “I am finding that it is more likely than not that no reasonable juror would have found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt with that evidence.” For the first time in the 8th Judicial District, a judge would issue an “Order Regarding Actual Innocence,” declaring publicly that Steese had not killed anyone.
IX. Innocent — but Still Guilty
Astonishing as Cadish’s decision was, Norwood knew that an innocence ruling was not the get-of-jail-free card it seemed to be. It was only the first step. Steese had to show that his wrongful conviction was somebody’s fault. Normally when a defendant appeals, the issue at hand is not innocence or guilt but whether he received a fair trial. Because Steese had run out of time to appeal and was suing for denial of his civil rights, Cadish’s ruling only cleared the way for her to consider the constitutional merits of his case. It was, in essence, a reset button. For Steese’s murder conviction to be thrown out, a judge would now have to rule that the prosecutors acted improperly or otherwise failed in their duties.
Norwood was confident that Steese would win such a case. He relished the idea of a rigorous examination in court of Kephart and Herndon’s behavior. But while he was optimistic, Norwood also knew that, should Cadish agree with him, Steese’s ordeal still wouldn’t be over. The state could appeal immediately — which meant Steese would have to wait for a ruling by the Supreme Court of Nevada. That could take many years. If the court came down in Steese’s favor, the prosecution could still re-try him. Only after a not-guilty ruling would Steese be fully exonerated. And he might not get bail during this process.
Weckerly, the deputy DA, could have simply supported Steese’s petition for habeas corpus, but she responded by tweaking the state’s argument. After hammering on the Robert theory for nearly two decades, her office suddenly asserted that Robert didn’t matter. Steese, Weckerly maintained, was still guilty. But she was facing the daunting prospect of starting over on a 20-year-old murder case. Two weeks after Cadish’s ruling, Norwood says, she proposed a deal. What if she gave Steese parole? Norwood countered: How about dropping all charges and having Steese plead to stealing the truck he used to get to Nevada, with a time-served sentence? Weckerly refused — she wanted a murder charge on the books. That was when she offered an Alford plea.
Though unfamiliar even to some lawyers, the Alford plea has been around since a 1970 U.S. Supreme Court case. Henry Alford, a 35-year-old black man, had said he was innocent of murder but pleaded guilty to avoid an automatic death sentence. He later appealed, claiming that his plea was made under duress, violating due process. The Supreme Court disagreed. The justices ruled that it wasn’t unconstitutional to accept a guilty plea despite protests of innocence, so as long as a defendant had intelligently made the decision and was counseled by a lawyer.
Unlike the better-known no-contest plea, in which a defendant accepts a conviction without admitting guilt, the Alford plea lets a defendant actually assert his innocence for the record. The defendant acknowledges that the state might be able to get a conviction despite his or her innocence. All but three states allow the plea, but the federal government says it should be used only in “the most unusual of circumstances.” The Alford plea is most often used in bargaining before a conviction, like a typical plea deal, and could very well be taken by guilty defendants who simply won’t own up to their crimes. How often it is offered and accepted, and by what sort of defendants, isn’t tracked. Many prominent legal scholars, such as Cornell law professor John Blume, contend that prosecutors are using the plea to quickly and quietly resolve newly challenged convictions. It’s undeniably coercive for a prosecutor to tell someone who has been in prison 5, 10, 20 years that “you don’t have to admit guilt, just sign this plea and we’ll let you go,” Blume said.
Norwood questioned whether justice was served by an Alford plea, especially when it was being used to prevent the exoneration of an innocent man — and to keep what he saw as prosecutorial misconduct under wraps. But he knew it was a valid way to resolve Steese’s case quickly. Norwood gave Steese the news: There was a way for him to get out of prison almost immediately. Steese didn’t have to think about it. “Now sounds good,” he said. “I’ll take now.”
As word of the deal circulated, some who had grown close to Steese were angry. Lemcke thought he was too near the finish line to give up a sure victory. And Steese’s half-sister, Lynn Myers, who reconnected with him after he’d been incarcerated and had been writing him letters for years, begged him to turn the plea down and clear his name. But Steese believed they were wound up about nothing. Judge Cadish had said he was innocent! He’d been locked up for 7,545 days. He just wanted to get on with life.
Shortly before 9 a.m. on a February day in 2013, Steese faced Cadish one final time in a hearing that lasted all of eight minutes. Under the terms of the Alford plea, Cadish accepted his guilty plea for a crime that just three months earlier she’d ruled he didn’t commit. She sentenced him to time served.
“Good luck to you,” she said.
Fred Steese, after his wrongful incarceration. (Dan Winters for Vanity Fair)
X. “All Rise”
About a year out of prison, Steese went to Southern California for training with a major trucking company. He was a 50-year-old man finally getting a shot at his childhood dream — what he’d called at his trial “the best job in the world.” He whizzed through the written test, and when he was called into the back office one morning, he thought it was to meet about how well he’d been doing.
We’re sorry, Steese was told, but you can’t work with a felony conviction.
No, wait, that’s just a misunderstanding, Steese replied. The judge said I was innocent. You can see the news stories all about me. He jumped into the first boxcar to Utah, where the company was headquartered. Folded in his back pocket was a copy of his order of innocence. If he could just show the owners, surely they would realize he was no murderer. He couldn’t get past the lobby.
In advocacy circles, Steese is counted among the exonerees. But the exoneration is only honorary. Signing the Alford plea meant he was still a convicted murderer, except that his original 1995 murder conviction had been vacated and replaced with the new deal. To a person doing a standard background check, it could appear as if Steese had killed someone in 2013. He felt as if the state had set him up to fail. It took Steese three years to find a trucking company willing to hire someone who, technically, in the eyes of the law, was an ex-felon. When CRST International invited him on board, he packed up the very next day. His truck gives him a place to stay and offers a shot at stability. Steese knows he doesn’t have much time left to work. “I’m 20 years behind,” he says.
Almost forgotten now is Gerard Soules. His sister, Kathy Nasrey, had written an angry letter to Cadish after the plea, telling her that if Steese hurt anyone else it was on her head. The district attorney hadn’t informed her that Steese had been found innocent, just that his release was the judge’s doing. Nasrey wept when she learned the truth, for Steese and for her brother, whose killer had never been caught. An entire room of her Detroit home remains a shrine to Jerry and his circus career. Nasrey still has Soules’s silver ring, stained with blood, in the envelope the coroner had returned it in. She wonders if the killer’s DNA is on it, and if anyone cares.
Both the Clark County DA and the North Las Vegas Police consider the Soules murder a closed case. The current DA, Steve Wolfson, who authorized Steese’s Alford plea, declined to discuss the matter. Herndon to this day stands by his prosecution of Steese, though he says he would produce Rock’s phone records if he had it to do over again. But he was skeptical about the use of the Alford plea. “If a judge has found somebody actually innocent, then there’s a part of me that says walk away from the case. You shouldn’t be asking somebody to plead guilty to something,” he said last year during a lunch break in his chambers. He added that if he had put someone in prison for a crime that person didn’t commit, “then it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Kephart spends his days on the third floor of the Regional Justice Center in downtown Las Vegas. Steese’s Alford plea in 2013 had conveniently shut down what could have been a damaging examination of Kephart’s conduct, clearing the way for the justice of the peace to make a successful leap to the more powerful district court in 2014. He will not talk about the pursuit and wrongful conviction of Fred Steese. When court is in session, he puts on his black robe. Ruddy-faced, as if he’d worked out but hadn’t quite cooled down, he strides to the bench.
“All rise. The Honorable William Kephart presiding.”
Maha Ahmed is a soon-to-be graduate of the University of Chicago, where she studied sociology and public policy. She was a managing editor of the community newspaper South Side Weekly, and worked at the Invisible Institute, In These Times magazine and other nonprofit media organizations in Chicago. Her reporting interests include policing, criminal justice, public education, and how they intersect with race, gender, and economic disparity. After graduation, she will work as an editorial fellow at Mother Jones.
Alex Darus
Alex Darus is a third-year journalism student at Ohio University. She is currently the blogs editor for The Post, a student-run newspaper on campus. She is also the social media director for the Scripps Hispanic Network and freelances TV recaps for Us Weekly. This summer she’ll be interning at cleveland.com.
Janaya Greene
Janaya Greene is a rising senior studying Public Affairs Journalism at The Ohio State University. Janaya was a Vice Media and Center for Communication fellow in 2016 and has worked as a Writing Intern for the Black Girl Nerds website. A native of Chicago’s South Side, her career goal is to report on communities in the African diaspora worldwide. Janaya is currently a Video and Audio Production intern at Dynasty Podcasts.
Sarah Beth Guevara
Sarah Beth Guevara is a sophomore at The University of Oklahoma, where she studies Broadcast Journalism and Vocal Music. She is involved with OU Nightly, a student-produced daily newscast. Sarah is a National Hispanic Merit Scholar. Her goal is to bring more awareness to the foster care system and to demonstrate how journalism can be a positive tool for change.
Jazzlyn Johnson
Jazzlyn “Jazzie” Johnson is a freshman journalism and resource conservation student at the University of Montana. She has written for her high school’s newspaper and for an online editorial publication. She enjoys reading and writing about environmental and racial issues. Johnson’s aspirations include becoming an investigative reporter covering racial inequality and people of color’s relationship to the outdoors and the environment.
Akira Kyles
Akira Kyles is a junior multimedia journalism major at Morgan State University. She is Managing Editor of the MSU Spokesman, Morgan State’s school newspaper. Originally from Oxon Hill, Maryland, she’s interned at the Baltimore City Paper, and freelanced for the Afro-American. She hopes to become an investigative reporter focusing on urban communities. For the past year she’s been focused on reporting on African-American health.
Jorge Martínez
Jorge Martínez is a rising senior at Brown University, studying Science and Society with a focus on Indigenous Knowledge. He has spent the past year working with tribal members of the California Indian community. His heritage is Jñatrjo (Mazahua) and Ñuu Sau (Mixtec). This summer he will be working with the Los Angeles Public Library to set up an exhibit celebrating the Zapotec community. Martínez strives to highlight Indigenous voices within the mainstream media.
Berenice Osorio
Berenice “Bere” Osorio is a senior studying Radio/Television/Video and Sociology at University of the Ozarks. She is a native of Mexico City. She came to the U.S. through the Walton International Scholarship program to pursue her dream of telling stories that impact people’s lives. During the 2017-18 school year, Bere will serve as a peer mentor and a teaching assistant for a Media Production class, and will serve as the news director of Ozarks Weekly.
Aneri Pattani
Aneri Pattani recently graduated with a degree in journalism from Northeastern University in Boston. This summer, she will be a James Reston Reporting Fellow at The New York Times, working with the health and science teams. She will also be traveling to Liberia with New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof. She has worked at CNBC, The Texas Tribune, The Boston Globe and The Hartford Courant.
Michelle Salinas
Michelle Salinas recently received her MA in Latin American Studies from UCLA. While an undergraduate, she served as managing editor of La Gente Newsmagazine. This past March she formed part of the NPR’s Next Generation Radio program at USC and produced a story on a young immigrant’s first days in the U.S. Salinas works on journalistic multimedia projects that connect history, art and culture. She plans on starting her own podcast on news from Latin America through an art and culture lens.
Maggie McCarty Sanders
Maggie McCarty Sanders is a direct descendent of the last whale hunter of the Makah nation. She received her Master’s Degree in Public Administration with a concentration in Tribal Administration. For the past five years, her work has been with the Nisqually Indian Tribe’s Natural Resources Department, where she works with tribal colleges and universities on climate change, its impact on treaty trust resources and engaging tribal communities to become resilient in the face of climate change.
Ellis Simani
Ellis Simani is an aspiring journalist and developer from Seattle’s Rainier Valley. A recent graduate of Claremont McKenna College, Ellis spent his time outside the classroom reporting for the South Seattle Emerald and also served as a Digital Scholarship Fellow for the Claremont University Consortium’s Digital Humanities initiative. This summer he’ll be joining The Seattle Times as the paper’s Digital and Interactives intern. Ellis is excited to build community with other journalists of color, especially among black journalists who code, or are interested in incorporating data and design in their reporting.
by David Epstein for ProPublica, and Mark Daly, BBC
This story was co-published with the BBC.
Two years ago, two men played key roles in an investigation by ProPublica and the BBC into possible anti-doping violations and the unorthodox use of prescription drugs by the elite Nike Oregon Project and head coach Alberto Salazar.
Now Dr. Jeffrey Brown, a Houston endocrinologist who treated many NOP athletes, and whistleblower Steve Magness, a former NOP assistant coach, are playing similar roles in a follow-up investigation by the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, which has documented pervasive misuse of prescription drugs and what it referred to as “highly likely” anti-doping violations involving a half-dozen current and former NOP athletes.
A recently leaked draft report details how USADA, with written permission, obtained copies of athletes’ medical records from Brown. But the report notes that some records, particularly those of 2008 Olympic marathoner Dathan Ritzenhein, appear to have been altered. In an interview with the BBC and ProPublica this week, Magness said that at least one of the records Brown gave to USADA regarding Magness’ own treatments also appears to have been altered and doesn’t match the copy he has from the visit.
“My only speculation is that the changes were made to make it look like patient care had been given,” Magness said. During the visit, he said, he actually served as a guinea pig to test a potentially performance-enhancing procedure.
The leaked interim USADA report was compiled in 2016 in response to a subpoena from the Texas Medical Board requesting a copy of USADA’s investigative files. The board launched its own investigation of Brown, and did not respond to a request for comment.
Among the documents in the report are notes from Brown’s office on a 2011 “follow up visit” with Magness, who was then assistant coach for the NOP.
The notes document an experiment on Magness in which he was given a large infusion of the supplement L-carnitine to see if it would enhance his running performance. L-carnitine is a legal substance that helps the body convert fat to energy. According to the USADA report, the experiment violated World Anti-Doping Code infusion limits that apply both to athletes and support personnel. Magness said when he saw the copy of the notes in the report, he noticed significant differences from his own copy. The infusion notes are still there, but so are checkmarks indicating that Magness received a medical examination beyond the L-carnitine experiment.
Spaces are checked off under the “Exam” category for: “General,” “Lungs,” “Thyroid,” “Neuro” and “Abdomen,” among others. Magness, now a coach at the University of Houston, provided a copy that is otherwise identical to the BBC and ProPublica.
“I do not recall these things being done,” said Magness, who has shared the record with USADA. “I wasn’t even in a patient room, but instead in his office during this visit. I do not recall his normal checks of my thyroid, or anything else.”
Left: a copy of Brown’s exam notes obtained from Magness. Right: a copy of the same document obtained by USADA from Brown. The highlighted area indicates discrepancies between the two versions.
Magness, who had been a patient of Brown’s since he was a top high school distance runner, said that the apparent alterations may have been added to make it look like the infusion was conducted alongside a thorough exam. “Without proper checks, it might look like he was prioritizing a company — Nike, Salazar — that was paying him over the health of his patient,” he said.
A New York Times story about the USADA report last week highlighted the discrepancies between the records Brown provided for Ritzenhein and those the distance runner gave to USADA directly. Ritzenhein was also given L-carnitine infusions, and the records turned over by Brown’s office indicate he received a 40 mL infusion, just under the 50 mL limit that would constitute an anti-doping violation. Copies of the same records provided by Ritzenhein are identical, but do not contain the same reference to 40 mL. Additionally, according to the USADA report, “an entire page of handwritten notes … was completely removed.” Based on other medical information, the report concludes that Ritzenhein’s infusion actually did exceed the allowable limit. The USADA report said that the same is likely true for five other NOP athletes.
In a written response to questions from the BBC and ProPublica, an attorney for Brown, Joan Lucci Bain, said that all medical records provided to USADA were accurate and given with patient consent. Brown could not comment on patients or their records, she said, without signed consent to do so.
But she blasted the accusations in the report, and said that USADA is “a private corporation which stands to gain financially through publicity, essentially using the press to spread its own ‘fake news.’” She added that the agency’s legal proceeding in a Texas district court, intended to compel Brown to give a deposition, had been dismissed. Bain said that questions from the BBC and ProPublica are “the latest attempt by USADA to bait Dr. Brown into breaking the law by ‘leaking’ false information to journalists in the hope that Dr. Brown will cross the line while trying to defend himself.”
USADA investigators claim the interim report was released by Russian hacking group Fancy Bear, and it is currently posted online in its entirety.
The report, which has no official standing, nevertheless reveals the breadth of the investigators’ findings thus far and the key role played by Brown. It concludes: “USADA has found that these potential anti-doping rule violations appear to have wholly or largely occurred in the context of a larger conspiracy between Nike Oregon Project Coach Alberto Salazar and Houston endocrinologist Dr. Jeffrey Brown to collude in order to employ risky and untested alternative and unconventional (and sometimes potentially unlawful) uses of medical procedures and prescription medications (including both substances and methods prohibited under the rules of sport…) to attempt to increase the testosterone, energy and blood levels of Nike Oregon Project athletes in order to boost athletic performance.”
Magness, other former NOP athletes and support personnel, and former Nike employees first spoke to the BBC and ProPublica in 2015 alleging that Salazar was engaged in a range of potential doping violations, from experimenting with well-known doping aids, such as testosterone, to giving athletes prescription medications they either didn’t need or weren’t prescribed in hopes of gaining a competitive advantage from their side effects.
Some top runners and others who’ve worked with Salazar allege that he experimented with testosterone and pressured athletes to use prescription medications they didn’t need to gain a performance benefit. Read the story.
Salazar denied the allegations at the time and wrote a lengthy rebuttal. The USADA report notes that Salazar admitted in an interview with USADA to “using testosterone near the end of his competitive career in the mid-1990s,” and also that he had multiple testosterone prescriptions in recent years from doctors in different states. The BBC and ProPublica previously reported that Salazar had coordinated tests on his son in a lab at the Nike campus to determine how much testosterone gel it took to trigger a positive test. Salazar said that the testing was for the purposes of counter-sabotage, should a rival try to rub testosterone gel on an NOP athlete.
Though Magness has contributed to the USADA investigation as a whistleblower, he may also face a ban for his part in the L-carnitine experiment. Salazar had been excited by research on L-carnitine suggesting the supplement provided notable performance benefits and had been eager to try it on his athletes, the report said. In a 2011 email to Lance Armstrong, Salazar wrote: “Lance, call me asap! We have tested it and it’s amazing.” Magness says he was the reluctant guinea pig.
Mo Farah, the four-time Olympic champion distance runner who was recently knighted, has also trained under Salazar and in 2014 received an injection of L-carnitine ahead of a major race that U.K. Athletics doctor Robin Chakraverty failed to record properly.
Before the Culture, Media and Sport Select Committee in April, Chakraverty said the injection was within the legal limit, though UKA chairman Ed Warner called his failure to record the treatment properly “inexcusable.”
On May 14, The Daily Caller, a popular conservative website, published a news story about recent protests in Charlottesville, Virginia. Led by prominent white supremacists and anti-Semites, the protesters, some carrying the battle flag of the Confederacy, expressed their anger over the city’s plans to remove a large monument to Robert E. Lee.
The article noted that some 200 people had carried torches in a march to the monument, a procession it called “visually striking.” It also quoted a young black man speaking favorably about one of the protest’s organizers.
The story, it turned out, also carried some critical omissions: It didn’t disclose that its author, Jason Kessler, is supportive of white supremacist groups, and on the day of the march had himself made a speech to the protesters in which he praised fascist and racist organizations, thanked a prominent Holocaust denier, and declared the beginnings of a cultural “civil war.”
ProPublica contacted Kessler after the article’s publication. In the course of an extended interview, Kessler said he saw efforts to remove symbols of the Confederacy as part of a broader attack on white people who, in his view, face an “existential crisis.”
“White people are rapidly becoming a minority in the U.S. and Europe,” he said, adding that he resented the country having to take in immigrants and refugees. “If we’re not able to advocate for ourselves we may go extinct.”
ProPublica also contacted The Daily Caller. Widely read in right-wing circles — the site gets nearly 10 million unique visitors per month, according to Quantcast — The Daily Caller was co-founded in 2010 by Tucker Carlson, who served as editor-in-chief until late last year when he took a prime-time job at Fox News. Carlson, who hosts a nightly show in the time slot that once belonged to Bill O’Reilly, remains co-owner of the site. Like Breitbart News, The Daily Caller has found an audience by posting a constant stream of punchy news stories, some of them imbued with racial overtones.
Within hours of being contacted by a ProPublica reporter, The Daily Caller appended an editor’s note to the article and severed its ties with Kessler. The editor’s note states, “The author notified The Daily Caller after publication that he spoke at a luncheon May 14 on behalf of an effort to preserve the monument.”
“The story is factually accurate and plainly states what happened at the event,” said Paul Conner, executive editor of The Daily Caller. “But in light of his activism on the issue, we have mutually agreed to suspend our freelance relationship with him.”
Asked about the substance of Kessler’s speech in Charlottesville, Conner offered no comment on Kessler’s statements. In an email, he said only, “We pay writers for journalism, not their opinions.”
The debate around Civil War monuments has become one of the many flashpoints at a racially volatile moment in the country’s history. In recent years, public officials throughout the South have sought to vanquish symbols of the Confederacy: In 2015, South Carolina took down the confederate flag that had long flown over the state capitol; more recently, New Orleans removed three statues of rebel war leaders that had dotted the city’s landscape, as well as a tall stone obelisk commemorating a Reconstruction-era uprising led by the White League, a racist militia.
In a speech that gained national attention, New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu argued that the statues had originally been erected in an effort to “rebrand” the Confederate cause. “These monuments purposefully celebrate a fictional, sanitized Confederacy; ignoring the death, ignoring the enslavement, and the terror that it actually stood for,” Landrieu said.
The Daily Caller has followed these developments closely, and its readers seem to appreciate the coverage. Kessler’s story generated 146 comments, many expressing support for the Confederate monuments, some openly hostile towards African Americans. A May 20 piece on an Alabama Senate bill that would preserve the monuments in that state spurred nearly 130,000 shares on Facebook, as well as a lengthy chain of comments, a large number of them lauding Alabama lawmakers for their stance.
The event in Charlottesville included an appearance by Richard Spencer, president of the National Policy Institute, a white nationalist organization. Kessler quoted Spencer in the article, which chiefly portrayed the protest as a pushback against “left-wing ideologues who want to tear down statues, change the names of buildings and rewrite history books to place white people in an unsympathetic and even hostile light.”
“We are here to say no; no more attacks on our heritage, on our identity; no more attacks on us as a people,” Kessler quoted Spencer as saying.
Kessler’s story made no mention of his own talk before the protesters. Speaking during an outdoor luncheon, Kessler praised groups such as the American Vanguard, an organization that espouses the eradication of the country’s democratic structure of governance. He hailed Matthew Heimbach, who views himself as a warrior against Jews and people of color, and Sam Dickson, a denier of the Nazi Holocaust who has been involved in racist activities since the 1970s.
In the interview, Kessler, accused ProPublica of trying to sabotage his journalism career. Kessler, 33, lives in Charlottesville, where he pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor assault charge in April; in mid-May he was arrested again, this time for disorderly conduct stemming from a scuffle at an anti-racist rally in his hometown. Kessler is fighting the charges and is slated to go to trial later this year. Kessler has written stories for his own website, Jasonkessler.net — his tagline is “Real News” — VDare, and GotNews, the website run by Internet provocateur Charles C. Johnson. In addition to written journalism, he posts video logs to YouTube, composes fiction and poetry, and maintains a constant presence on Twitter. He heads a small activist group called Unity and Security for America that aims to drastically limit immigration to the U.S. from non-European countries so as to stave off the impending “white genocide” in America.
Kessler describes himself as an “activist-journalist” on the issue of saving monuments honoring the Confederacy. He said he views the white supremacists and fascists as allies but doesn’t subscribe to all of their views. He insists he’s not a racist or an anti-Semite.
Cloudflare, a prominent San Francisco outfit, provides services to neo-Nazi sites like The Daily Stormer, including giving them personal information on people who complain about their content. Read the story.
“I just wanted to thank people for coming out and supporting the monuments. That doesn’t mean I support all their politics,” he said of his talk to the protesters. “I’m not going to sit and pass judgment on these people for the views they express. I don’t condemn or endorse what other people say.”
“The most extreme people are the bravest people,” Kessler told ProPublica. “There’s a paucity of people who are willing to take a stand for white civil rights.”
Kessler said whites may need to create their own homeland, an ethnic state for people of European descent. Still, he added in the interview, “As far as being hateful towards other people, I’m not on board.”
In a YouTube clip posted the same day as his interview with ProPublica, Kessler floated the theory that Jews are relying on “collusion and nepotism” to seize power and influence for themselves.
In Kessler’s view, his friends within the neo-Nazi and white supremacist milieu aren’t hurting anybody. In any case, he said, he’s more concerned about the “little white girls being blown up by” Islamist terrorists.
The Anti-Defamation League, which studies trends on the extreme right, has a different take, noting that white racists and anti-government militants have left a long trail of violence in their wake, killing some 255 people and injuring more than 600 in terror attacks over the past quarter century, according to a recent ADL report.
In a March attack, a white supremacist and former U.S. Army soldier impaled an African-American man with a 26-inch sword near New York’s Times Square, killing the victim. In Portland, Oregon, another white supremacist, Jeremy Christian, allegedly stabbed two men to death on a commuter train on May 26 while shouting anti-Muslim statements. And earlier this month, law enforcement investigators found bomb materials at the Florida home of a 21-year-old member of the Atomwaffen Division, a neo-Nazi group, leading to federal charges.
“Kessler is representative of what hate looks like today, operating at the center of several movements that have arisen over the last few years,” said Oren Segal, Director of the ADL’s Center on Extremism. “He clearly sympathizes with white supremacists, but like many on the alt-right seeks to deflect such notions by presenting his words and activity as a mere response to multiculturalism and an assault from the left.”
It’s no secret that drug prices have been rising rapidly and have placed a heavy burden on American families, particularly those with health plans that force them to pay thousands of dollars before their insurance kicks in. Certainly, drug companies are partly responsible for the price hikes. But what far fewer Americans realize is that drugs travel a multi-stop route from manufacturer to user, with each player along the way taking its bite and sometimes imposing hurdles on patients’ ability to access the drugs their doctors order.
ProPublica and The New York Times are interested in hearing from patients about any difficulties they have had accessing or paying for prescription drugs, in particular if those challenges have occurred in the past year. Please share your story below. We will not share it with others or print it without your permission.
by Charles Ornstein, ProPublica, and Katie Thomas, The New York Times,
This article is a collaboration between ProPublica and The New York Times.
A company that manages prescription drug plans for tens of millions of Americans has sued a tiny drug maker that makes an emergency treatment for heroin and painkiller overdoses, increasing the tension between the companies that make drugs and those that decide whether they should be covered.
Express Scripts, the nation’s largest pharmacy benefits manager, is suing Kaléo, the manufacturer of Evzio, the injectable overdose treatment whose price quintupled last year, drawing widespread outrage and inquiries from members of Congress. Express Scripts claims it is owed more than $14.5 million in fees and rebates related to Evzio, and it has dropped the drug from its preferred list.
In recent months, anger over rising drug costs set off a civil warwithin the pharmaceutical industry, pitting drug makers against other players in the health care system, including the little-known pharmacy benefit managers who negotiate with drug makers on behalf of insurers, large employers and government health programs. Drug makers and some members of Congress have accused Express Scripts and other benefit managers of operating in the shadows, pocketing an undisclosed share of the payments they exact from drug makers even as consumers are asked to pay inflated prices for the medicines they need.
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The lawsuit, though heavily redacted, provides some tantalizing details about Express Scripts’ business dealings. Consultants and brokers — who advise employers on their prescription drug plans — said it showed that Express Scripts is collecting fees that keep rising as drug prices go up.
For example, according to the lawsuit, which was filed in federal court in St. Louis, Express Scripts charged Kaléo “administrative fees” that climbed sharply at the same time that Evzio was rising in price. In January 2016, Evzio carried a list price of $937.50 for two injectors, and Express Scripts billed Kaléo for about $25,000 in administrative fees for its commercial clients. But three months later, Evzio’s price had climbed to $4,687.50, and these fees totaled nearly $130,000. That’s on top of charges that included “formulary rebates,” or drug discounts, and “price protection rebates,” which are triggered when a drug jumps in price. Those price-protection rebates totaled $14 million — most of the money that Express Scripts is trying to recoup.
Benefit managers like Express Scripts typically pass the rebates they collect from manufacturers along to their clients — insurers and large employers — after taking a portion of the rebates for themselves. But critics, like Linda Cahn, the chief executive of Pharmacy Benefit Consultants in Morristown, New Jersey, say that the benefit managers are not transparent about what share of fees they keep, and what share they pass along to clients.
Administrative fees are particularly murky, she and others said. Some of the fees are passed to clients, but benefit managers also collect other fees that are not returned to clients.
“The lawsuit reveals that Express Scripts is collecting immense sums of money. No one knows what they’re passing through and what they’re retaining,” said Cahn, who flagged the lawsuit in a note to clients Monday. “Every client and the federal government and taxpayers should insist that they do.”
But Brian Henry, a spokesman for Express Scripts, disagreed with her assessment and described Kaléo as a “deadbeat dad.” “They owe rebates and administrative fees that we share with our clients and we are working to get that money back,” he said in a statement.
Henry also said, “The vast majority of the administrative fees are passed back to our clients and in the Medicare space, they are all passed on. Where they are not passed back, it is with the full knowledge and agreement of our clients.”
Spencer Williamson, the chief executive of Kaléo, said in a statement that the lawsuit was “baseless” and that the company was committed to providing affordable access to its drug “without burdensome paperwork or high out-of-pocket costs.”
The lawsuit is the latest piece of bad news for Kaléo, a private Virginia company with just two products on the market. When Evzio arrived on the market in 2014, it was sold as an easy-to-use device, similar to an EpiPen, that could be stowed in a pocket or medicine cabinet and quickly used by friends or relatives to reverse the effects of a drug overdose.
But while the device was initially hailed by addiction experts who said it would make it easier to stop fatal overdoses, the company came under heavy criticism in 2016, when it quintupled the price of Evzio. The price increase — which came in the midst of a national opioid abuse epidemic — prompted letters from members of Congress, demanding to know what had prompted the change.
Kaléo has said it sharply raised the price of Evzio to cover the cost of a new patient-assistance program that lowers the out-of-pocket costs for people who cannot afford the product. Kaléo covers all of the out-of-pocket costs for patients with private insurance, and offers Evzio free of charge to uninsured people who make less than $100,000 a year.
But critics have said that such patient-assistance programs serve to drive up the cost of drugs to the health care system because while they ease the burden on patients, they leave insurers with the bulk of the bill, especially when a less expensive alternative is available. Other forms of naloxone, the active ingredient in Evzio, are available at a much lower price.
This is not the first time Express Scripts has sued a drug maker with expensive products. In 2015, Express Scripts filed suit against Horizon Pharma, also over unpaid fees. Horizon agreed to pay Express Scripts $65 million in September 2016 to settle the case. After initially dropping coverage of Horizon’s drugs, Express Scripts added them back to its preferred drug list.
Express Scripts is also being sued. Last year, the insurance giant Anthem sued Express Scripts in federal court in New York for $15 billion and claimed the company had been overcharging it for drugs. Express Scripts, which denied the claims, said recently that it would most likely lose Anthem, its largest customer, beginning in 2020, leading to speculation about how the company will replace the business it is losing.
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In the spring before the 2016 presidential election, the Obama administration’s 12-nation trade agreement known as the Trans-Pacific Partnership, or TPP, was still alive. Negotiators worked on details as Congress considered whether to ratify the pact.
The Australian government was getting in the way of one change demanded by U.S. pharmaceutical companies. Makers of cutting-edge biological drugs wanted to have data from their clinical trials protected from competitors for 12 years, as they are under U.S. law — not the roughly five years permitted under the TPP. Australian officials insisted that an extension would deprive consumers of cheaper alternatives for too long.
On April 5, 2016, a bipartisan group of U.S. lawmakers arrived in Canberra, Australia’s capital, for meetings with government officials on a broad range of subjects. Among those on the routine congressional trip was Rep. Tom Price, a Georgia Republican who would go on to become President Trump’s secretary of health and human services. Three weeks before the trip, Price had purchased up to $90,000 worth of pharmaceutical stocks — trades that would come under scrutiny after his nomination to Trump’s cabinet.
In Canberra, Price and another Republican, Rep. John Kline of Minnesota, pressured senior Australian trade officials to modify their position on the 12-year extension, according to a congressional aide who was on the trip. The Australians explained that they had no intention of changing their laws or rules in ways that could increase drug prices. Price and Kline continued pushing, according to the aide, asking for a side letter or other written guidance that the period would be extended in Australia even if it weren’t spelled out in the TPP itself.
Price’s lobbying abroad, which has not previously been reported, is another example of how his work in Congress could have benefitted his investment portfolio. He traded hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of shares in health-related companies while taking action on legislation and regulations affecting the industry. ProPublica previously reported that Price’s stock trades are said to be under investigation by federal prosecutors.
Price, who did not respond to an interview request for this story, has said he did nothing wrong, that his broker generally chose stocks without his knowledge and that all of his trades were publicly disclosed.
Price’s financial disclosures submitted to the House Office of the Clerk show that on March 17, 2016, he purchased shares worth between $1,000 and $15,000 each in Eli Lilly, Amgen, Bristol-Meyers Squibb, McKesson, Pfizer and Biogen. All six companies had an interest in biological drugs, which are grown from live cells and are known for short as biologics. Eli Lilly, for example, is behind Portrazza, the first biologic approved to treat a common type of lung cancer. Amgen makes a top-seller for rheumatoid arthritis and psoriasis. Biogen developed a biologic for people suffering multiple sclerosis relapses.
Kline, who has since retired from Congress, said he could not recall if he or anyone else raised the biologics issue. His financial disclosures do not show direct holdings in pharmaceutical companies.
Australia has played another role in Price’s financial activities. In 2015 the congressman bought about $10,000 worth of shares in Innate Immunotherapeutics, a small biologics firm with an office in Sydney. After the congressional trip, which also made a stop in Sydney, Price purchased a larger stake in the company, about $84,000 worth, in two private placements, the first of which was announced in June. Price was invited to purchase the shares at a discounted rate.
Then-Rep. Tom Price, R-Ga., third from left, with other members of a congressional delegation to Australia and Pru Gordon, senior adviser to the Australian Minister of Trade (House Committee on Education and the Workforce)
It’s not known if Price had any contact with the firm while in Sydney. Price didn’t respond to questions about when and where he discussed the discounted offering with company officials. The company’s officials also did not respond.
Traveling congressional delegations typically meet with a variety of local officials, and at the time of the visit to Australia it wasn’t unusual for Republican lawmakers to side with the pharmaceutical industry on the trade deal’s protections for biologics. Price’s advocacy stands out because he pushed the cause directly with foreign officials, while at the same time owning stakes in companies that could have benefited.
An itinerary for the trip reviewed by ProPublica mentions TPP in relation to one of the meetings, but does not list the biologics provision. A former Australian trade official, who asked not to be named and attended one of the meetings, confirmed that the 12-year lockup was addressed, but said he could not recall which Congress members were pushing it.
Others on the trip, organized by the House’s Education and the Workforce Committee, were Robert Scott, D-Va., Ruben Hinojosa, D-Texas, Erik Paulsen, R-Minn. and Dan Benishek, R-Mich. Those members who responded to requests for comment said they could not recall whether the provision was discussed.
The data collected during clinical trials of drugs can save competitors time in developing the cheaper alternatives to biologics known as biosimilars. Keeping the data proprietary longer extends the original drugmaker’s monopoly. While some big brand-name pharmaceutical companies also make biosimilars, they and their trade association — the Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America — advocated strongly for longer exclusivity.
In the end, the debate over the provision became moot. Trump scrapped the TPP days after taking office. Price divested his drug stocks upon taking the cabinet post. His investment in Innate Immunotherapeutics yielded a profit of at least $150,000.
Special correspondent Anne Davies in Sydney contributed to this story.
Do you have access to information about Tom Price that should be public? Email robert.faturechi@propublica.org or send him encrypted messages on Signal at 213-271-7217. Here’s how to send tips and documents to ProPublica securely.
Two Nevada laws designed to counter bad behavior by state prosecutors, or at least give some defendants the ability to undo troubling plea agreements, passed last week, although one was substantially gutted under pressure from prosecutors and police.
The legislative debate over both laws mentioned the case of Fred Steese, a drifter wrongfully convicted of murder, then declared innocent more than 20 years later by a judge after exculpatory evidence was found in the prosecution’s files. The prosecution then pressured Steese to agree to a controversial deal called an Alford plea that allowed him to say he was innocent and go free as long as he pleaded guilty.
Steese’s case — and the pattern of misbehavior by lead prosecutor Bill Kephart — were the subject of stories by ProPublica and Vanity Fair last week.
The bill that passed after being substantially watered down was AB376. If passed as originally drafted, it could have exacted penalties for the sort of misconduct that led to Steese’s conviction. It would have required prosecutors to share evidence with the defense 30 days prior to trial or risk exclusion, broadened the scope of favorable evidence they are required to share and mandated that courts dismiss charges when prosecutors showed bad faith in failing to turn evidence over.
Much of the draft law simply reinforced major U.S. Supreme Court constitutional rulings — such as Brady vs. Maryland — which apply nationwide and hold that turning over evidence favorable to the defense is a matter of civil rights and failing to do so violates a person’s right to due process. The Nevada law would have made penalties more uniform and a matter of course.
Supporters of the legislation, including the Clark County Public Defender’s office, said preventing wrongful convictions like Steese’s was one of the goals of the proposed law.
But Christopher Lalli, a top assistant with the Clark County District Attorney’s office, argued at an April hearing that the bill was “unreasonable” and a “radical change” that would “unduly burden prosecutors.” When an assemblywoman asked him what ramifications the prosecutors faced in Steese’s case, Lalli responded, “Ramifications for what?”
Lalli, who is on the disciplinary board for the State Bar of Nevada, said he was “very involved” in the Steese case and claimed “there was no exculpatory evidence withheld.”
Without mentioning that a judge had granted Steese a rare order of “actual innocence”’ or that the prosecutors’ office responded by pressuring Steese to take an Alford plea or face a retrial, Lalli noted that Steese had pled guilty to second-degree murder charges — “hardly something that would be done by somebody who was actually innocent.”
Fred Steese served more than 20 years in prison for the murder of a Vegas showman even though evidence in the prosecution’s files proved he didn’t do it. But when the truth came to light, he was offered a confounding deal known as an Alford plea. If he took it he could go free, but he’d remain a convicted killer. Read the story.
Following the hearing, only a small portion of the bill survived — a requirement that prosecutors press charges within 72 hours against defendants in custody.
Lisa Rasmussen, a director for Nevada Attorneys for Criminal Justice, said prosecutors’ failures to share evidence with the defense have been an ongoing problem in the state and it was “really depressing we could not get more reform this [legislative] session.”
But a second bill, inspired by Steese’s case and others like it, received a more favorable reception.
Rasmussen said she realized the raw deal Steese had gotten in 2013 and tried to help him withdraw his Alford plea so that he could sue for wrongful conviction. But Nevada law didn’t allow him to take back his plea. Last week, Nevada’s governor, with the support of prosecutors in the state, signed a new law that allowed certain defendants to undo plea agreements. The law, however, comes too late to help Steese, Rasmussen said.
“What happened to Fred makes me so mad,” she said. “We’re filing an application for a pardon.”
A self-made Vermonter, Glenn Bowman has sent both his children to out-of-state prep schools. His son plays lacrosse and football at Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, and his daughter studied advanced dance at Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts.
As the owner of a successful soapstone company that's been featured on Martha Stewart and mentioned in The New York Times, Bowman could pay the $50,000-plus annual tuitions at each school out of his own pocket, he said.
But he doesn’t have to.
Because Londonderry, the small town where the Bowmans live, has no high school, they qualify for Vermont’s voucher program, the nation’s oldest. It contributes about $15,000 a year toward each tuition, ultimately saving Bowman more than $100,000 overall on his children’s high school educations.
Bowman chose not to enroll his children in a public school in a nearby town, which the voucher could also have paid for. “Unfortunately, public schools are left dealing with the lowest common denominator and that leaves high-performing kids like mine in a tough place,” he told ProPublica. “You do the best you can for your kids. I can do this and so I do.”
Vermont’s voucher program is a microcosm of what could happen across the country if school-choice advocates such as Education Secretary Betsy DeVos achieve their vision. By subsidizing part of the cost of private schools in or out of state, it broadens options for some Vermonters while diverting students from public education and disproportionately benefiting wealthier families like the Bowmans.
Vermont vouchers have been used to send students to ski academies, out-of-state art schools and even foreign boarding schools, such as the Sigtunaskolan School in Sweden, whose alumni include Sweden’s current king and former prime minister. Vermont paid more than $40 million in vouchers to more than 60 private schools last year, including more than $1.3 million to out-of-state schools, according to data received from the state’s education agency through a public-records request.
Of the almost 2,800 Vermonters who use publicly funded vouchers to go to private schools in state, 22.5 percent qualify for free or reduced price lunch, according to state education data. (The data excludes out-of-state private schools.) By contrast, 38.3 percent of public school students in Vermont have family incomes low enough to qualify them for the lunch discount.
“Families with higher socioeconomic status are opting into the private schools,” Nicole Mace, executive director of the Vermont School Boards Association, said in an interview. “If those dollars are going to subsidize a family who could otherwise afford a private school, that is not the best use of taxpayer dollars.”
Since a voucher covers less than half of the typical prep school tuition, low-income Vermonters still can’t afford the likes of Exeter or Deerfield, unless they receive financial aid from the school. The Putney School in Putney, Vermont, which has had an average of 14 voucher students per year over the past five years, charges over $35,000 in tuition and fees, more than double the voucher amount.
Of these students’ tuitions, 36 percent has been funded by vouchers, 37 percent by financial aid from The Putney School and 27 percent by the family’s contribution, said Michael Bodel, the school’s director of communications. Most of the students come from Vermont, with the rest from Maine, where towns without public schools also offer vouchers for public or private schooling.
“The school choice program has been meaningful for us and critical for many of our students and their families,” Bodel said. “Vouchers often serve as a valuable financial resource in tandem with financial aid awards.”
Northfield Mount Hermon School in Massachusetts, which had six voucher students in 2016, costs $44,015 in tuition and fees. Stephen Porter, the school’s director of communications, said that the students who use the vouchers come from a mix of scholarship and full-paying families. Ultimately, said Porter, the vouchers save the school “dollars to give to other students with financial aid needs.” Exeter and Deerfield did not comment.
Vermont’s voucher program is spurring controversy there, including proposals to tighten regulation of private schools that accept vouchers, or to ban using vouchers for out-of-state schools. Overlooked outside the small, rural state, the debate in Vermont has implications for the rest of the country as the Trump administration aggressively pushes for school choice nationwide. The administration’s recently proposed budget includes $250 million to study and expand vouchers for students to attend religious and private schools, a longtime priority of Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos.
“If educational choice is unleashed, I am confident that the American entrepreneurial ‘can-do’ spirit will ultimately prevail, even in the industry of education,” said DeVos at the 2014 summit of the American Federation for Children, a school-choice advocacy organization that she helped found. “This is why I challenge you to fully embrace educational choice and to fight for this freedom in your home state.”
Over her career, DeVos has primarily championed vouchers for students who are poor or attend failing schools. Most current programs, which are spread out across 15 states and Washington, D.C., limit vouchers to low-income students or kids with special needs. The federal budget proposal would only provide vouchers to low-income families.
Still, some critics say that school-choice proponents attach income ceilings to voucher proposals out of political expediency. “To say it’s for poor black and Hispanic kids, that pulls at the heartstrings of Democrats who wouldn’t support charters or vouchers,” said Diane Ravitch, the New York University education historian and public schools advocate, who served as assistant under secretary of education under President George H.W. Bush. DeVos and the school choice movement “know in their bones that’s not what it’s about. It’s about the end game, and the end game is a free market place.”
The Education Department did not respond to a request for comment.
DeVos has credited the late Nobel Prize-winning economist Milton Friedman, who favored vouchers for all students regardless of socioeconomic background, with the “vision … that lit the spark of the education revolution underway today.”
With his wife Rose, Friedman founded EdChoice, an advocacy group that supports vouchers for all. Its president and chief executive officer, Robert Enlow, said in an interview that the administration’s budget brings that goal closer.
“If it helps low-income families access vouchers, that’s great, but it should be for everyone,” he said. “The conversation started at the state level, and the federal moves are increasing the dialogue around universal vouchers.”
A case in point is Indiana’s voucher program, one of the nation’s largest with more than 32,000 students. Initially, it was restricted to low-income students, but the state has loosened the requirements. Today, Indiana families earning up to $90,000 qualify for vouchers. Additionally, more than half of Indiana’s recipients had never attended a public school, indicating that many families had previously been able to cover tuition at private or religious schools on their own. What started as choice for the poor has widened into choice for the middle class.
This past April, Arizona expanded eligibility for a voucher-like program to any student regardless of income. Its program had previously offered the variant of vouchers, known as empowerment scholarship accounts, only to students from failing schools and those with special needs. Public school advocates have lambasted the new law for benefiting wealthy families who could already afford private schools.
Vermont’s program also has no income limit. To qualify, families must live in a town that lacks a public elementary or high school, also known as a “choice” town. Without a brick-and-mortar school option in town, they instead can get an annual voucher equivalent to the state’s average per-pupil expenditure, which was about $15,000 last year. The voucher can be used at any state-approved school, whether it’s the public school in a neighboring town or a private boarding school in a neighboring state. A 1999 Vermont Supreme Court ruling prohibited religious schools from receiving publicly funded vouchers under the state program. In essence, the taxpayer dollars follow the children. About half of students from “choice” towns — or about 3.5 percent of all Vermont students — use vouchers to attend private schools.
Private school advocates and many parents defend this approach, which pits public and private schools against each other in competition for a fixed number of students from “choice” towns. “If the public schools are not attracting them, whose fault is that?” said Mill Moore, executive director of the Vermont Independent Schools Association.
“The families are making judgments based on their needs and the needs of their children.”
Describing the voucher program as “completely equitable and equal,” Moore disputed that it divides Vermont’s students along socioeconomic lines. “Whether you are wealthy or living below the poverty line, everyone gets the same entitlement,” he said.
The discrepancy in free and reduced lunch could be explained if choice towns had wealthier residents than non-choice towns, but a ProPublica analysis of recent census data suggests this is not the case. Median incomes of families in choice and non-choice towns are similar.
The program began in 1869, when Vermont’s educational landscape was split between newly formed public high schools, which focused more on trade skills like farming and mechanics, and private academies that emphasized a more classical education.
Some Vermont towns were too small or rural to justify building their own public schools. Instead, the state gave families the choice to use taxpayer dollars to shuttle kids off to private academies or public schools in nearby districts. Reflecting this heritage, four of Vermont’s oldest private schools maintain their tuition and fees only slightly above the standard voucher amount. Some of the surrounding towns raise their voucher allocations slightly to make up the difference. Most of the students at these academies pay with vouchers.
The flow of students and taxpayer dollars to private schools has intensified concerns about under-funding public schools already beset by dwindling enrollment. As the population ages, the number of students attending Vermont’s schools has declined 15 percent over the past decade and a half, compared with a national enrollment increase of 6.5 percent. Reduced enrollment translates into reduced school budgets, making it harder to pay fixed costs such as building upkeep and teacher salaries.
Helen Head, a Democratic state representative from South Burlington, introduced legislation earlier this year to prohibit public funding to out-of-state and some in-state private schools. “I want to be cautious that we don’t go the way of other states in shortchanging the ability of public schools to meet the needs of our students,” she said in an interview. Her proposals are pending in the House education committee.
Facing a student shortfall, the state education board has pressured smaller school districts to merge, intensifying the discord over school choice. School-less towns risk losing their vouchers if they consolidate with another town that has a public school, causing tensions in some communities.
The board of education has also proposed stricter regulations for private schools that accept public funds. Unlike public schools, which must take all students, private schools can have selective admissions, and have been accused by some critics of excluding applicants with special needs. The board wants private schools participating in the voucher program to adopt an open enrollment policy, especially for students with disabilities, and be more transparent about their finances.
Defenders of choice contend that the board is sabotaging the state’s historic private school tradition. “The public school system is trying to close all the ‘independent’ schools so that they can harvest the students from them,” said Rob Roper, the executive director of the free-market think tank, the Ethan Allen Institute.
Casey Deane, who has taught in Vermont public schools for about 25 years, says the exodus of voucher students to private schools “really affects the classroom.” (Caleb Kenna for ProPublica)
As a public high school teacher, Casey Deane sees the effects of school choice on public schools every day. Deane lives in a “choice” town, Marlboro, but works as a social studies teacher at Union High School in neighboring Brattleboro. Over the years, Deane has observed relatively well-off and educated families using vouchers to exit the public system, leaving behind low-income and disabled students. About one-third of Brattleboro’s high school students qualify for free or reduced price lunch.
“Students whose families are engaged are able to shift to ‘better’ schools and that only spirals the public school system into deeper dysfunction,” said Deane, who has been teaching in Vermont public schools for about 25 years. “The economic discrepancy that we have now has been broadened and it really affects the classroom.”
About 45 percent of the students in choice towns around Brattleboro attend private schools in and outside of the state, accounting for about $1 million in voucher spending, according to a ProPublica analysis of state data. For cash-strapped schools like Deane’s, the taxpayer dollars could make a significant difference. “For $75,000, you could get two brand new teachers or one veteran teacher,” he said.
Partly for financial reasons, Marlboro native Aliza Racine used her voucher to go to Union High, where Deane teaches, rather than private school. Both of her parents work in the logging industry, and her mother also runs a home cleaning business. “Do I really want to have my parents go into debt just to pay for high school?” she said in an interview.
Now a junior at the University of Vermont, where she majors in political science, Racine enjoyed Union High. She was challenged academically, took four years of dance classes and even traveled on a school program to Costa Rica. But, she said, many students go to private school with the help of vouchers because of a stigma against public education.
“The public school has a negative connotation that it’s not as good or up to the same standards of private schools,” said Racine. “If you do take advantage of what the public system has to offer, it can be just as good.”
While the voucher program funnels public money out of state, it also lures families to Vermont. Bill Cobb, a lawyer, and his family left Brooklyn, New York, more than a decade ago because “we weren’t sure that the public schools would be good for our kids,” he said. After a brief stay in Connecticut, they moved to a “choice” town in Vermont.
His wife had grown up in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, a rural area speckled with school-less towns, and she understood the educational landscape. The Cobbs have used vouchers to send their two sons to Milton Academy, a boarding school south of Boston.
“Consumers appreciate having the choice that we have,” he said. “Once you got [the voucher], you don’t want to give it away.”
Cobb paid the Milton tuitions with a combination of his own money, vouchers and school financial aid, he said. According to Milton’s website, Cobb and his wife have donated to the private academy for at least three consecutive years.
Vermont should expand the voucher program to all residents, regardless of whether their towns have public schools, Cobb said. “If this was the system everywhere, people would be happier,” he said. “Consumers would be excited to know that they could send their kid wherever they want, and let supply and demand create new schools and competition.”
The national debate over vouchers is starting to resonate in Vermont. Kevin Chavous gave the keynote address at a National School Choice Week event in Montpelier, the state capital, in January. He’s a founding board member and executive counsel for DeVos’ former school-choice advocacy group, the American Federation for Children.
Before an audience of private school students and choice supporters, Chavous commended the state for having “the oldest school choice program in the country.”
“I wish there was the same program in every other state,” he said. “Right now, there are those who are talking about backing away from this. Don’t do that. Don’t go backward.”
Early last Monday morning, Oscar Millan’s longtime partner called him from a Boston hospital, weepy with relief.
Their son, Oscar Matias, had been born two weeks earlier with a serious condition that prevented food from traveling from his stomach to his small intestine. But that morning, he’d undergone a successful surgery to repair it, and a second was scheduled for early June. Millan told his partner, Evanice Escudero, that he’d be by to pick them up in a couple of hours, after checking in on a landscaping job he had to do that day.
But Millan, a 37-year-old undocumented Mexican immigrant, never made it to the hospital.
As he drove to the job site, he was picked up by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents, who were looking for him near his home in Framingham, Massachusetts, about 20 miles outside of Boston. In 2008, an immigration judge had ordered Millan deported after a failed asylum claim, but Millan had stayed in the country with his family until he recently pleaded guilty to driving under the influence. An ICE spokesman said Millan’s arrest was prompted by both the deportation order and the conviction.
At the hospital, Escudero began to panic. “I was calling him over and over again but he wasn’t picking up and I didn’t know why,” Escudero said in an interview in Spanish. “I didn’t know what was going on until Oscar’s mother came to pick me up at around 11 or noon.”
After the arrest, ICE agents had gone to Millan and Escudero’s house and explained to his mother what had happened.
The move to detain Millan is a sign that the Trump administration is delivering on its promise to strictly follow longstanding immigration laws to maximize its ability to deport people living unlawfully in the United States.
After years of aggressive enforcement, the Obama administration had instructed immigration officials in 2014 to exercise more discretion in who they targeted. ICE agents were told to consider the length of time immigrants had lived in the country, their family or community ties and whether they had a young child or a seriously ill relative before seeking their deportation. The Trump administration explicitly rescinded those guidelines in February. Instead, it told immigration officers to enforce the law “to the greatest extent practicable.”
“He has to be with his family right now,” said Matthew Cameron, a Boston lawyer who’s representing Millan. “But you need to understand that there is no legal path, there never has been a legal path for that. It’s a fairly typical story now in Trump’s deportation system.”
An ICE spokesman said Millan would “remain in ICE custody pending his removal from the United States.”
It’s hard to say whether Millan’s case is a direct result of Trump’s aggressive immigration policies. Even without the DUI, a February memo from the Department of Homeland Security said immigration agents should prioritize the deportation of those who had outstanding orders to be removed.
During the first 100 days of the administration, ICE officers arrested 38 percent more immigrants than during the same period in 2016, about 410 individuals a day. The administration touted the numbers as a victory, but the narrow comparison obscures the evolution of the Obama administration on immigration enforcement. In fact, during the majority of his administration, Obama deported far more people each day than Trump has so far.
In the press release announcing the increase in arrests, ICE’s acting director Thomas Homan said the agency would no longer sit on deportation orders — like the one Millan had for years — before enforcing them.
“We are a nation of laws, and ignoring orders issued by federal judges undermines our constitutional government,” Homan said.
Millan was arrested in January 2016 by a Framingham police officer for driving under the influence. At the time, a breathalyzer test said he had a blood-alcohol concentration almost twice the Massachusetts legal limit. The police report made no mention of his immigration status, other than mentioning that Millan had no valid driver’s license, and had instead showed a Mexican one.
“After his conviction, he would have gone up the pecking order even under Obama,” said Dan Kesselbrenner, executive director of the National Immigration Project, an advocacy organization based in Boston. “And there is no real pecking order under the Trump administration. Everyone is a priority.”
Steven Carl, who led the Framingham Police Department until 2013, said that during his time there the presence of ICE agents was rare, perhaps one or two days every six months. The town is 13 percent Hispanic, according to the 2010 census, and has a particularly large Brazilian population.
“It seems odd just because he has a DUI that they would pick him up,” Carl said. “I’d think ICE would have higher priorities than that.”
The Framingham Police Department, which has a policy of not actively cooperating with ICE, did not respond to requests for comment.
After his arrest on May 22, Millan was held in a Boston detention center but was recently sent to a larger facility in Louisiana. Cameron, his lawyer, has filed an emergency request to stay his deportation — a last recourse — asking ICE to “allow him to remain with his family during this critical time in his newborn son’s life.” He said he has yet to receive a response, but the requirements of the administrative appeal are notoriously hard to decipher.
Millan’s case echoes that of Andres Magana Ortiz, 43, a Mexican immigrant who lived in the U.S. for 28 years and was recently denied an emergency stay by ICE. The U.S. Court of Appeals for the 9th Circuit said on Tuesday that it had no authority to prevent his deportation.
Only a tiny percentage of detained immigrants have attorneys, leaving even those with solid cases to stay in the United States to fend for themselves. Read the story.
ICE had granted Magana Ortiz multiple emergency stays over the years but denied his latest two petitions, filed in March and April of this year. During the time he was allowed to stay in the country, Magana Ortiz had begun the process to become a U.S. citizen after marrying an American in 2015. He is also the father of three American children and while he had two old DUI convictions, they had not prevented him from receiving the emergency stays in the past.
Two 9th Circuit judges said on Tuesday that they had no authority to grant Magana Ortiz an emergency stay. But one, Judge Stephen Reinhardt, a liberal appointee, used his concurring opinion to chastise the Trump administration.
“The government forces us to participate in ripping apart a family,” Reinhardt wrote. “The government’s decision to remove Magana Ortiz shows that even the ‘good hombres’ are not safe.”
Since arriving in Louisiana this week, Escudero said she had spoken with Millan once.
“He’s desperate,” Escudero said. “Since he arrived, they’ve already sent one group to Honduras. They are sending people back so quickly.”
In much of the debate surrounding President Donald Trump’s decision to withdraw from the Paris Agreement on climate change, some critical points have been lost.
One reality is that the agreement was always going to reflect, more than determine, whether the world develops a sustainable relationship with the climate system. The language was intentionally “soft” on what countries pledged to do domestically. There was no other way to get nearly 200 sovereign states to the table. And there was little reason to aspire to more.
The forces both driving and constraining worldwide emissions of greenhouse gases are largely outside the top-down influence of some accord. Rising global energy needs and the enduring abundance of fossil fuels are driving fuel demand and emissions growth. Dropping costs of renewable energy, the increasing substitution of natural gas for coal, and a growing focus on energy efficiency in developing economies are slowing emissions.
But obviously the agreement wasn’t soft enough for Trump, who made no mention of the clear risks from climate change laid out by his secretary of defense, James Mattis, after his confirmation hearing earlier this year, but warned of “massive legal liability” if the United States remained a signatory.
There were going to be setbacks no matter which option Trump chose, and it will take years for the consequences of his decision to play out. He included enough nuance — including the notion of working with Democrats to “negotiate our way back into Paris” or crafting something to replace it — to keep everyone guessing.
And separate from Thursday’s announcement, he had already decided on steps that could undermine international action. For example, his earlier decision to cut funding to United Nations programs related to the climate agreement (not to mention funding for population programs) is going to have substantial adverse impacts on its own. And if his budget cuts for climate science and programs aimed at fostering environmental resilience are not altered by Congress, there’ll be lots more real consequences not directly related to Paris.
Perhaps the most sobering, largely shrouded, reality is that the nations some have pointed to as the new climate leaders lose some of their luster on closer examination.
China and the European Union have used the Trump moves on climate and energy to assume, at least rhetorically, a leadership role in the public discourse over limiting global warming.
Both have garnered headlines for their aggressive and heavily subsidized pushes to expand wind and solar power generation. But while Chinese and German clean-energy policies and investments have driven the deep drop in the cost of solar panels, the economies of both countries remain heavily dependent on coal and oil.
China, while curbing domestic construction of coal-powered plants, has become a leading lender financing the construction of new coal-burning power plants in developing countries, according to a 2016 study by researchers at Boston University and the Institute for World Economics and Politics at the Chinese Academy of Social Science.
China is clearly past the peak of the domestic coal-burning binge of the early 2000s that fueled its dizzying recent rate of urbanization and industrialization. But it will be burning billions of tons of coal or turning it into cleaner natural gas for at least several more decades. Synthesizing gas from coal is great for curbing urban air pollution, particularly if the gas substitutes for burning coal as a domestic heating and cooking fuel, as is still common in China. But there’s a climate cost, as Princeton researchers have found, because the energy required to synthesize the gas is supplied by, yes, coal, producing more greenhouse gases.
And Europe, while generally basking in the glow of the Paris Agreement, has been quietly lobbying the Trump administration since February to fast-track approvals of multi-billion-dollar terminals for exporting America’s abundant shale-drilled natural gas as liquefied natural gas, or LNG, across the Atlantic. Who’s the fossil fuel villain there?
A New York Times column on the climate set off yet another dangerous tempest of exaggeration and simplification. Read the story.
In an interview in early April at a conference on sustainable energy in New York City, Maros Sefcovic, vice president of the European Commission for energy policy, said LNG exports were a central focus of meetings earlier in the year in Washington with Trump administration officials. The hope is to cut European dependence on piped Russian gas — and to provide the flexible power generation needed to balance variable output from solar and wind installations.
Later that month, Secretary of Energy Rick Perry used an appearance at the Bloomberg New Energy Finance meeting in Manhattan to announce the approval of a giant Texas LNG export terminal, owned by Qatar, ExxonMobil and others.
In an onstage discussion with Ethan Zindler of Bloomberg, Perry used a question on Paris to point out the difference between Europe’s climate-focused public statements and its work to gain gas supplies. “We’re out in the public and they’re giving all these speeches about the Paris accord and all the things we’re going to do, and we get into private meetings, it’s like, ‘How do we get that LNG?’,” he said, adding: “Don’t get up on the front end and make all these speeches about how good you’re doing, when the fact of the matter is you’re not.”
It’s important to note that expanded gas exports to Europe were also a goal of the Obama administration, both for economic and strategic reasons. President Obama had also urged fracking-averse Europe to do its own energy development, as well. Hillary Clinton, too, took heat from environmentalists during her campaign for her longstanding support of natural gas drilling, and natural gas exports.
In an email, Myles R. Allen, a climate scientist and policy analyst at Oxford University, said Trump’s decision hinted at a bigger issue, simmering well beyond the United States, that would continue to hinder progress — the enduring abundance of, and demand for, fossil fuels:
The proposal to renegotiate the U.S. terms is interesting — is it just a distraction tactic? Perhaps, but if we really want to put the future of the planet first, we do need to think about how to make the agreement both more effective and more acceptable to nations with substantial fossil reserves — or the U.S. won’t be the last one to jump ship.
It is worth noting that the site of next year’s round of annual climate change negotiations, announced Thursday by the United Nations, will be Katowice, Poland — a city in the heart of the Polish coal belt. Poland signed the Paris Agreement along with the rest of the European Union last October, but only after gaining concessions allowing its coal use to continue.
The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau is conducting an investigation into alleged improprieties in Wells Fargo’s mortgage fee practices.
The CFPB is looking into allegations, first reported by ProPublica in January, that the bank inappropriately charged customers fees to extend their promised interest rates when their paperwork was delayed. The CFPB probe is in its early stages, according to a person familiar with it, and there is no certainty that the agency will take action. The CFPB has the power to levy fines and seek restitution if it finds a financial firm has violated the law. A CFPB spokesperson declined to comment.
Wells Fargo is also conducting its own internal review, overseen by the law firm Winston & Strawn. The inquiry was initially limited to the Los Angeles area, but has since widened. In a sign of its escalating scope and seriousness, Wells Fargo let three top mortgages executives go last week, including Greg Gwizdz, a 25-year veteran of the bank who most recently was the head of its retail sales division. Gwizdz oversaw the bank’s more than 7,900 loan officers.
The bank also dismissed Drew Collins, the manager of the Pacific division, and Sandy Streator, the regional sales manager for Nevada and Oregon. Previously the bank parted ways with Tom Swanson, the Los Angeles County regional sales manager. Gwizdz, Collins and Streator did not respond to requests for comment.
The decision to let the executives go was a result of “some of the things we found as part of” the internal review, said bank spokesman Tom Goyda, though he added that “no single issue or situation” led to the departures. Goyda declined to comment on the CFPB probe.
ProPublica reported Wells Fargo mortgages routinely bogged down in paperwork delays. When that occurred, supervisors instructed loan officers to blame and charge the customers, even when the problems were the fault of the bank, according to current and former Wells Fargo employees. Customers were charged fees of $1,000 to $1,500 or more, depending on the size of the loan, to extend, or lock in, their interest rates. The practice of shunting the fees onto the customers was particularly common in the Los Angeles County and Oregon regions.
In Oregon, part of Streator’s territory as regional sales manager, two former loan officers and one former branch officer told ProPublica in February they were instructed to charge customers for mortgage lock extensions even when the bank was responsible. The former branch officer estimated that in 2015 and 2016 he oversaw 350 mortgages that needed lock extensions. He said the bank only paid the fee twice.
Wells has been reshuffling management elsewhere within the organization as part of the fallout into an earlier and separate scandal. Last September, the bank was fined $185 million for illegally opening as many as 2 million deposit and credit card accounts without customers’ knowledge. In February, it fired four senior managers connected to that wrongdoing.
In April, the board of directors issued a report excoriating the bank’s top-level management for its high-pressure sales culture.
The CFPB probe comes at a time when the 6-year-old agency’s own future is uncertain under the Trump administration. Banks, financial firms and the Republican Party have opposed the agency and its sweeping powers to oversee consumer finance. Consumer advocates and the CFPB’s adversaries await a decision from the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia about the constitutionality of the agency. Adding to the uncertainty, Richard Cordray, the director of the agency, is expected to be leaving his post sometime this summer, though his term does not expire until July 2018.
As President Donald Trump faces criticism for blocking users on his Twitter account, people across the country say they, too, have been cut off by elected officials at all levels of government after voicing dissent on social media.
In Arizona, a disabled Army veteran grew so angry when her congressman blocked her and others from posting dissenting views on his Facebook page that she began delivering actual blocks to his office.
A central Texas congressman has barred so many constituents on Twitter that a local activist group has begun selling T-shirts complaining about it.
And in Kentucky, the Democratic Party is using a hashtag, #BevinBlocked, to track those who’ve been blocked on social media by Republican Gov. Matt Bevin. (Most of the officials blocking constituents appear to be Republican.)
The growing combat over social media is igniting a new-age legal debate over whether losing this form of access to public officials violates constituents’ First Amendment rights to free speech and to petition the government for a redress of grievances. Those who’ve been blocked say it’s akin to being thrown out of a town hall meeting for holding up a protest sign.
On Tuesday, the Knight First Amendment Institute at Columbia University called upon Trump to unblock people who’ve disagreed with him or directed criticism at him or his family via the @realdonaldtrump account, which he used prior to becoming president and continues to use as his principal Twitter outlet.
“Though the architects of the Constitution surely didn’t contemplate presidential Twitter accounts, they understood that the president must not be allowed to banish views from public discourse simply because he finds them objectionable,” Jameel Jaffer, the Knight Institute’s executive director, said in a statement.
The White House did not respond to a request for comment, but press secretary Sean Spicer said earlier Tuesday that statements the president makes on Twitter should be regarded as official statements.
Similar flare-ups have been playing out in state after state.
Earlier this year, the American Civil Liberties Union of Maryland called on Gov. Larry Hogan, a Republican, to stop deleting critical comments and barring people from commenting on his Facebook page. (The Washington Post reported that the governor had blocked 450 people as of February.)
Deborah Jeon, the ACLU’s legal director, said Hogan and other elected officials are increasingly foregoing town hall meetings and instead relying on social media as their primary means of communication with constituents. “That’s why it’s so problematic,” she said. “If people are silenced in that medium,” they can’t effectively interact with their elected representative.
The governor’s office did not respond to a request for comment this week. After the letter, however, it reinstated six of the seven people specifically identified by the ACLU (it said it couldn’t find the seventh). “While the ACLU should be focusing on much more important activities than monitoring the governor’s Facebook page, we appreciated them identifying a handful of individuals — out of the over 1 million weekly viewers of the page — that may have been inadvertently denied access,” a spokeswoman for the governor told the Post.
Practically speaking, being blocked cuts off constituents from many forms of interacting with public officials. On Facebook, it means no posts, no likes and no questions or comments during live events on the page of the blocker. Even older posts that may not be offensive are taken down. On Twitter, being blocked prevents a user from seeing the other person’s tweets on his or her timeline.
Moreover, while Twitter and Facebook themselves usually suspend account holders only temporarily for breaking rules, many elected officials don’t have established policies for constituents who want to be reinstated. Sometimes a call is enough to reverse it, other times it’s not.
Eugene Volokh, a constitutional law professor at the UCLA School of Law, said that for municipalities and public agencies, such as police departments, social media accounts would generally be considered “limited public forums” and therefore, should be open to all.
“Once they open it up to public comments, they can’t then impose viewpoint-based restrictions on it,” he said, for instance allowing only supportive comments while deleting critical ones.
But legislators are different because they are people. Elected officials can have personal accounts, campaign accounts and officeholder accounts that may appear quite similar. On their personal and campaign accounts, there’s little disagreement that officials can engage with — or block — whoever they want. Last month, for instance, ProPublica reported how Rep. Peter King, R-N.Y., blocked users on his campaign account after they criticized his positions on health reform and other issues.
But what about their officeholder social media accounts?
The ACLU’s Jeon says that they should be public if they use government resources, including staff time and office equipment to maintain the page. “Where that’s the situation and taxpayer resources are going to it, then the full power of the First Amendment applies,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if they’re members of Congress or the governor or a local councilperson.”
Volokh of UCLA disagreed. He said that members of Congress are entitled to their own private speech, even on official pages. That’s because each is one voice among many, as opposed to a governor or mayor. “It’s clear that whatever my senator is, she’s not the government. She is one person who is part of a legislative body,” he said. “She was elected because she has her own views and it makes sense that if she has a Twitter feed or a Facebook page, that may well be seen as not government speech but the voice of somebody who may be a government official.”
Volokh said he’s inclined to see Trump’s @realdonaldtrump account as a personal one, though other legal experts disagree.
“You could imagine actually some other president running this kind of account in a way that’s very public minded — ‘I’m just going to express the views of the executive branch,’” he said. “The @realdonaldtrump account is very much, ‘I’m Donald Trump. I’m going to be expressing my views, and if you don’t like it, too bad for you.’ That sounds like private speech, even done by a government official on government property.”
It’s possible the fight over the president’s Twitter account will end up in court, as such disputes have across the country. Generally, in these situations, the people contesting the government’s social media policies have reached settlements ending the questionable practices.
After being sued by the ACLU, three cities in Indiana agreed last year to change their policies by no longer blocking users or deleting comments.
In 2014, a federal judge ordered the City and County of Honolulu to pay $31,000 in attorney’s fees to people who sued, contending that the Honolulu Police Department violated their constitutional rights by deleting their critical Facebook posts.
And San Diego County agreed to pay the attorney’s fees of a gun parts dealer who sued after its Sheriff’s Department deleted two Facebook posts that were critical of the sheriff and banned the dealer from commenting. The department took down its Facebook page after being sued and paid the dealer $20 as part of the settlement.
Angela Greben, a California paralegal, has spent the past two years gathering information about agencies and politicians that have blocked people on social media — Democrats and Republican alike — filing ethics complaints and even a lawsuit against the city of San Mateo, California, its mayor and police department. (They settled with her, giving her some of what she wanted.)
Greben has filed numerous public-records requests to agencies as varied as the Transportation Security Administration, the Seattle Police Department and the Connecticut Lottery seeking lists of people they block. She’s posted the results online.
“It shouldn’t be up to the elected official to decide who can tweet them and who can’t,” she said. “Everybody deserves to be treated equally and fairly under the law.”
Even though she lives in California, Greben recently filed an ethics complaint against Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed, a Democrat, who has been criticized for blocking not only constituents but also journalists who cover him. Reed has blocked Greben since 2015 when she tweeted about him … well, blocking people on Twitter. “He’s notorious for blocking and muting people,” she said, meaning he can’t see their tweets but they can still see his.
In a statement, a city spokeswoman defended the mayor, saying he’s now among the top five most-followed mayors in the country. “Mayor Reed uses social media as a personal platform to engage directly with constituents and some journalists. … Like all Twitter users, Mayor Reed has the right to stop engaging in conversations when he determines they are unproductive, intentionally inflammatory, dishonest and/or misleading.”
Asked how many people he has blocked, she replied that the office doesn’t keep such a list.
J’aime Morgaine, the Arizona veteran who delivered blocks to the office of Rep. Paul Gosar, a Republican, said being blocked on Facebook matters because her representative no longer hosts in-person town hall meetings and has started to answer questions on Facebook Live. Now she can’t ask questions or leave comments.
“I have lost and other people who have been blocked have lost our right to participate in the democratic process,” said Morgaine, leader of Indivisible Kingman, a group that opposes the president’s agenda. “I am outraged that my congressman is blocking my voice and trampling upon my constitutional rights.”
@RepGosar ..You weren't home when I delivered this message to your office, but no worries...there WILL be more!
— Indivisible Kingman (@IndivisibleCD4) May 13, 2017
Morgaine said the rules are not being applied equally. “They’re not blocking everybody who’s angry,” she said. “They’re blocking the voices of dissent, and there’s no process for getting unblocked. There’s no appeals process. There’s no accountability.”
A spokeswoman for Gosar defended his decision to block constituents but did not answer a question about how many have been blocked.
“Congressman Gosar’s policy has been consistent since taking office in January 2010,” spokeswoman Kelly Roberson said in an email. “In short: ‘Users whose comments or posts consist of profanity, hate speech, personal attacks, homophobia or Islamophobia may be banned.’”
On his Facebook page, Gosar posts the policy that guides his actions. It says in part, “Users are banned to promote healthy, civil dialogue on this page but are welcome to contact Congressman Gosar using other methods,” including phone calls, emails and letters.
Sometimes, users are blocked repeatedly.
Community volunteer Gayle Lacy was named 2015 Wacoan of the Year for her effort to have the site of mammoth fossils in Waco, Texas, designated a national monument. Lacy’s latest fight has been with her congressman, Bill Flores, who was with her in the Oval Office when Obama designated the site a national monument in 2015. She has been blocked three times by Flores’ congressional Twitter account and once by his campaign account. One of those blocks happened after she tweeted at him: “My father died in service for this country, but you are not representative of that country and neither is your dear leader.”
Lacy said she was able to get unblocked each time from Flores’ congressional account by calling his office but remains blocked on the campaign one. “I don’t know where to call,” she said. “I asked in his D.C. office who I needed to call and I was told that they don’t have that information.”
Have you sent a letter in support, in opposition or asking questions about the ACA to your congressperson? Did you get a response? Share them with us.
Lacy and others said Flores blocks those who question him. Austin lawyer Matt Miller said he was blocked for asking when Flores would hold a town hall meeting. “It’s totally inappropriate to block somebody, especially for asking a legitimate question of my elected representative,” Miller said.
In a statement, Flores spokesman Andre Castro said Flores makes his policies clear on Twitter and on Facebook. “We reserve the right to block users whose comments include profanity, name-calling, threats, personal attacks, constant harping, inappropriate or false accusations, or other inappropriate comments or material. As the Congressman likes to say — ‘If you would not say it to your grandmother, we will not allow it here.’”
Ricardo Guerrero, an Austin marketer who is one of the leaders of a local group opposed to Trump’s agenda, said he has gotten unblocked by Flores twice but then was blocked again and “just kind of gave up.”
“He’s creating an echo chamber of only the people that agree with him,” Guerrero said of Flores. “He’s purposefully removing any semblance of debate or alternative ideas or ideas that challenge his own — and that seems completely undemocratic. That’s the bigger issue in my mind.”
ProPublica also has been tracking legislators sending misinformation to constituents about the Affordable Care Act and its repeal. Have you corresponded with a member of Congress or senator about health care? We’d love to see the response you received. Please fill out our short form.
Does the estate tax really hurt small businesses? House Speaker Paul Ryan thinks so.
He revived this longstanding debate in a May 17 column in the Kenosha News, in which he defended the Republican plan to abolish the levy on inherited wealth. Ryan wrote that the “death tax” can “result in double, and potentially even triple, taxation on small businesses and family farms, both of which are prevalent in Wisconsin.”
President Trump made a similar claim in his budget proposal a few days later, calling for repeal of the estate tax on the grounds that it “penalizes farmers and small business owners who want to pass their family enterprises on to their children.”
Such advocacy for small business owners, a key GOP base, is politically shrewd. But whether it fits the facts is less clear. Democrats have countered that the estate tax actually penalizes the ultra-rich — another traditional Republican constituency — far more than farmers or small business owners.
Ryan’s op-ed provided a petri dish in which we could test the Republican position. What we found is that the odds of a small business owner in Wisconsin being subject to the estate tax are — under very generous assumptions — about 1 in 64. By comparison, that’s only slightly higher than the risk of dying from unintentional poisoning, according to data from the National Safety Council. In raw numbers, about as many people drown in Wisconsin in a year as die leaving taxable estates.
Ryan wrote in his op-ed that small businesses make up nearly 98 percent of all employers in Wisconsin. The vast majority file federal returns as individuals, at an income tax rate up to 44.6 percent, he wrote. Via estate taxes, he contended, heirs pay taxes a second time on the same assets.
The current federal estate tax threshold is about $5.5 million for an individual and $11 million for a married couple. For 2015 — the last year for which statistics are available — the IRS said 61 estates in Wisconsin got hit with the tax. Is that a lot or a little? Here are some numbers for context.
It’s not clear how many small business owners die in any given year. But assuming that they succumb at the same rate as Wisconsin’s population as a whole — 874 deaths per 100,000 people, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention — that would translate into a total universe of just under 3,900 deceased small business owners whose estates might be taxed.
Now assume that all 61 estates that actually paid taxes belonged to small business owners. That’s unlikely, because some of the 61 probably accumulated their wealth another way — through stakes or executive positions in major corporations, for example. But even if our assumption were valid, it would mean that only 1.6 percent of small business owners left enough wealth to owe any federal estate tax.
Another way to contextualize the data is to look at the overall number of deaths in Wisconsin. According to the state’s Department of Health Services, about 50,000 Wisconsin residents die each year. Since 61 estates were taxed in 2015, only about one-tenth of 1 percent of all deaths in Wisconsin generate an estate tax bill.
The numbers get even smaller when you look at the impact on the state’s farmers. Nationwide, IRS data shows that about 13 percent of taxed estates include any farm assets. Apply that percentage to Wisconsin’s 61 taxed estates, and you might expect eight of them to be farms.
There are about 68,700 farm operations in Wisconsin, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture. If you assume the owners all pay taxes as individuals and die at the same rate as the state’s overall population, 1.3 percent would owe estate tax upon death.
Moreover, heirs of the small proportions of farmers or small business owners with taxable estates might not have to sell the property to foot the bill right away. The IRS allows taxpayers to spread estate tax payments into smaller installments due over many years.
We shared our math with Ryan’s spokeswoman, who did not respond.
Others who reviewed the calculations said they’re simply an indication of whom the estate tax actually targets.
“The purpose of the estate tax is to say, ‘If you have a significant amount of wealth, you should pay some part of it as a tax when you die,’” said Roberton Williams, a senior fellow at the Urban-Brookings Tax Policy Center. “The people that the tax affects are the people who are really well-off and it’s a tiny sliver of the population.”
In January, we launched The Breakthrough — a podcast where investigative reporters reveal how they nailed their biggest stories. And now we’re starting a new season, on June 16.
This season you’ll hear how one reporter uncovered a story involving a missing loan shark, a mobster and a cop with a questionable side hustle. You’ll also hear how another reporter’s investigation of labor laws took him from a chicken plant in Ohio to a village in the mountains of Guatemala. And, we’ll tell the story of a small news site in Vermont that took on a huge resort developer and prompted a major investigation.
Last season, we asked for your feedback and got lots of great responses. We would love to hear from you again. Tell us what you like, what you haven’t liked and send suggestions of stories we should feature on the show! Email us at podcasts@propublica.org.
We’re really excited about this season and hope you are too. Go to wherever you listen to podcasts and subscribe to the ProPublica Podcast to get the new bi-weekly episodes starting June 16.
We also have a bonus episode for you this week. It’s hosted by one of our recent Emerging Reporters, TyLisa Johnson. She spoke with Carrie Levine from the Center for Public Integrity about campaign finance reporting in the age of Trump.
The ProPublica Emerging Reporter program that TyLisa is a part of gives college students of color mentoring and stipends so they have the financial flexibility and support to do great journalism. It includes ongoing mentorship, a trip to our New York newsroom and a $4,500 stipend per semester. We are accepting applications for our 2018 program now, so apply!
This story was co-published with Stars and Stripes and The Virginian-Pilot.
A key federal official who helps adjudicate claims by veterans who say they were exposed to Agent Orange has downplayed the risks of the chemical herbicide and questioned the findings of scientists, journalists and even a federal administrative tribunal that conflict with his views.
Jim Sampsel, a lead analyst within the Department of Veterans Affairs’ compensation service, told a VA advisory committee in March that he believes much of the renewed attention to Agent Orange — used during the Vietnam War to kill brush and deny cover to enemy troops — is the result of media “hype” and “hysteria,” according to a transcript of the meeting released to ProPublica.
“When it comes to Agent Orange, the facts don’t always matter,” said Sampsel, himself a Vietnam veteran who also handles Gulf War-related illness questions. “So we have to deal with the law as written.”
Part of Sampsel’s job entails reviewing evidence to determine whether a veteran or group of veterans came in contact with Agent Orange outside of Vietnam. By law, veterans are presumed to have been exposed to Agent Orange if they served or stepped foot in Vietnam; they have to prove exposure if they served at sea or in another country during the war. They also must have a disease that the VA ties to exposure to the herbicide.
“From my point of view, I will do anything to help veterans, any legitimate veteran, and I’ve done it plenty of times,” he told the Advisory Committee on Disability Compensation, a group that advises the VA. “Unfortunately when it comes to this Agent Orange, we have to have a lot of denials.”
Sampsel also offered a window, for the first time, into ongoing internal deliberations at the VA about adding new diseases to the list of those connected to Agent Orange exposure. He suggested that despite increasing evidence tying the herbicide to hypertension, or high blood pressure, the VA is not going to extend benefits to veterans with that condition.
Reached by phone, Sampsel said, “You’re going to try to frame me, too,” before referring a reporter to the VA’s media relations office. ProPublica and The Virginian-Pilot examined the effects of Agent Orange on veterans and their offspring in a series of articles in 2015 and 2016, raising questions about the VA’s handling of the matter.
The VA provided two written statements in response to questions for this article. Initially, a spokesman said that Sampsel was speaking as an individual at the meeting, and not for the VA.
“The objective of a federal advisory committee is to have open and public discussion of the issues for which it is chartered from the experts who understand and bring their own unique perspectives,” the statement said. “The March 2017 meetings were no exception and Mr. Sampsel’s comments did not fully or accurately reflect VA’s position concerning these issues.”
The VA said no decisions have been made about which new diseases to add to its list of those linked to Agent Orange exposure.
Asked whether it continued to support Sampsel, the VA said in a subsequent statement that he “is highly dedicated and respected within and outside of VA for the work he has done to establish many of the present policies that provide veterans, their families and survivors the benefits they are entitled to under the law.” The department also questioned the quotes a reporter asked about from the advisory committee meeting. “Taking quotes out of context without fully understanding the law, science, reasons or intent behind those words is a disservice to the advisory committee and the veteran community at large as well as Mr. Sampsel.” (Read the full transcript.)
Veteran advocates said they were furious to learn a VA official charged with objectively weighing evidence related to Agent Orange had shared controversial personal views.
Rick Weidman, legislative director for Vietnam Veterans of America, said he met with VA Secretary David Shulkin last week and told him, among other things, that Sampsel and others in the Veterans Benefits Administration need to be replaced. “Where they are now is doing active evil,” Weidman said. He added that he doesn’t expect Sampsel and other VA employees to necessarily be advocates “but we do expect them to be neutral and honest arbiters of science — and they are not.”
Although Agent Orange hasn’t been used in more than 40 years, it remains controversial because it contained dioxin, one of the world’s most toxic chemicals. Its effects can take decades to show up. Scientists continue to associate exposure to Agent Orange with diseases, and the VA continues to weigh whether to extend benefits to groups who say they were exposed to it outside of Vietnam.
Members of Congress who are leaders on veterans’ issues said the VA has an obligation to care for vets injured by Agent Orange. “I strongly believe we must do everything in our power to ensure veterans struggling with negative health effects as a result of exposure to Agent Orange receive the care and compensation they deserve; we owe nothing less to these brave men and women who have sacrificed more than enough for our country,” Rep. Tim Walz, D-Minn., the ranking Democrat on the House Committee on Veterans’ Affairs, said in a statement.
Among Sampsel’s statements:
He said he believes Agent Orange contained “very, very small amounts” of dioxin, which was quickly destroyed by sunlight and the open air. “That’s not commonly acknowledged by advocates,” he said. Moreover, Sampsel said, U.S. planes did not spray it when American troops were in the area.
In fact, a report by the Aspen Institute notes that on leaf and soil surfaces, dioxin will last one to three years and that dioxin under the surface could have a half-life of more than 100 years. Moreover, scientists have said that there are numerous ways in which American troops may have been exposed to the herbicide and some disagree that few troops were exposed.
Sampsel pushed back against claims that veterans who served outside of Vietnam were exposed to Agent Orange. “When we get to outside of Vietnam, there’s a lot of controversy about Agent Orange use. And primarily it’s media hype, in my opinion.”
In fact, veterans who served in Thailand, near the Korean demilitarized zone, in Okinawa, Japan, and aboard ships off the coast of Vietnam contend they were exposed in a variety of ways. Some have produced memos, photos and testimonials that have been enough to convince the Board of Veterans Appeals, the VA’s tribunal, that there was sufficient evidence to prove exposure and that they were entitled to benefits.
Sampsel criticized the Board of Veterans Appeals for its decisions. “BVA is, can do anything they want. I don’t know if everybody understands BVA. BVA has caused a lot of, what I would call misinformation about Agent Orange issues.”
A member of the advisory panel, Thomas J. Pamperin, responded to Sampsel at the March meeting: “A decision by the Board of Veterans Appeals is the secretary’s final decision. I mean, we can’t distance ourselves from the Board of Veterans Appeals. It is part of the VA.”
And in its statement, the VA said it, too, respects the BVA. “BVA is the highest appellate authority in VA,” it said. “They are attorneys who review the evidence of record and make decisions.” While the VA may not always agree with a decision, “their decisions are final and are implemented when issued.”
Sampsel criticized the prestigious Institute of Medicine, a congressionally chartered research organization hired by the VA, which in 2015 determined that the evidence suggested that a group of Air Force reservists could have been exposed to Agent Orange years after the Vietnam War when they flew aboard the C-123 planes that had been used to spray the herbicide.
“One scientist from Harvard or somewhere said that dried, solidified TCDD dioxin never stops emanating molecules into the air,” Sampsel said. “Hardly anybody bought that at the time, but the IOM went with it.”
He added a bit later: “I don’t think the science supports it. Most scientists don’t think the science supports it, but the law is what it is.”
The Institute of Medicine, now called the National Academy of Medicine, found that the dioxin present on the aircraft could have exposed reservists who flew the planes years later. In its report, it said one contention of the VA and its expert, Alvin Young, was “inaccurate,” another “appears to be conjecture and not evidence-based” and a third was based on a study funded by Dow Chemical Co., one of the herbicide’s makers.
In its statement, the VA said the Institute of Medicine “provides a valuable service to VA.”
Sampsel favorably cited Young, an Air Force officer, federal official and later the government’s go-to consultant, who has guided the stance of the military and the VA on Agent Orange and whether it has harmed service members. “I’m not the scientist,” Sampsel said at one point. “But I know that Dr. Alvin Young and the majority, the vast majority, of scientists don’t think that anybody gets any harmful effects from something that’s in the soil, buried in the soil.”
But ProPublica and The Virginian-Pilot reported last fall that critics say Young’s work is compromised by inaccuracies, inconsistencies or omissions of key facts, and relies heavily on his previous work, some of which was funded by Monsanto Co. and Dow Chemical Co., the makers of Agent Orange. Young also served as an expert for the chemical companies in 2004 when Vietnam vets sued them. In an interview at the time, Young defended his work.
Sampsel said Young’s research showed that Agent Orange “never went to the Philippines, never went to Okinawa, never went to Guam,” as some veterans contend.
A member of the panel interjected because he felt that Sampsel was being overly broad.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yes, yes. You’re, you’re absolutely correct,” Sampsel said, noting he should have said there was currently no evidence. “And if evidence does show up, we’ll certainly change our policy. … You’re right.”
During his presentation, Sampsel also summarized internal deliberations within the VA about which diseases should be formally linked to Agent Orange. Last year, the Institute of Medicine said there is now evidence to suggest that Agent Orange exposure may be linked to bladder cancer and hypothyroidism. It also confirmed, as previous experts have said, that there is some evidence of an association with hypertension, stroke and various neurological ailments similar to Parkinson’s Disease.
As part of our Reliving Agent Orange series, ProPublica and The Virginian-Pilot have been recording the voices of those impacted by the herbicide, which contained the toxic chemical dioxin. Read the story.
Since then, a VA-led study has found stronger evidence to link hypertension to Agent Orange exposure. The VA has been reviewing the matter since last year to decide whether to cover the diseases.
Sampsel said the Veterans Health Administration had recommended that the VA acknowledge the connection between Agent Orange and hypertension, but that benefits officials at the VA worked to kill that effort and believe they succeeded.
“I believe the secretary, the information I got recently, is not going to go with hypertension. As to the other ones, there’s the likelihood that they’ll become added to the list,” Sampsel said.
The VA, in its statement, said it could not comment on internal discussions “other than to say those deliberations are underway.” But it did note that no recommendations had gone to the secretary for his consideration.
If the VA ultimately decides to add hypertension to its list of covered diseases, it could be costly. Hypertension is the most common ailment among veterans seeking health care at the VA — indeed it is one of the most common ailments among older adults generally.
José Juan Morales, coordinador de investigadores, Subprocuraduría de Personas Desaparecidas en el estado de Coahuila: Tenemos testimonios de personas que afirman que participaron en el crimen. Se hablaba de alrededor de 50 camionetas que llegaron a Allende con gente vinculada al cartel. Ingresaron a domicilios, los saquearon, quemaron. Después de saquearlos, llevaron a las personas que vivían en los domicilios a un rancho a las salidas de Allende.
Primero los mataron y luego los metieron a una bodega donde había pastura, los rociaron con diésel y les prendieron fuego. Estuvieron alimentando el fuego horas y horas.
José Juan Morales Coordinador de investigadores, Subprocuraduría de Personas Desaparecidas en el estado de Coahuila
Los indicios de que algo innombrable pasó en Allende son contundentes. Cuadras enteras, en algunas de las calles más transitadas del pueblo, yacen en ruinas. Mansiones que fueron ostentosas hoy son cascarones desmoronados, con enormes agujeros en las paredes, techos carbonizados, mostradores de mármol agrietados y columnas colapsadas. Esparcidos entre los escombros quedan los vestigios raídos y enlodados de vidas destrozadas: zapatos, invitaciones a bodas, medicamentos, televisores, juguetes.
En marzo de 2011, el tranquilo pueblo ganadero, de unos 23 000 habitantes y a solo 40 minutos en auto de la frontera con Texas, fue atacado. Sicarios del cartel de los Zetas, una de las organizaciones de narcotráfico más violentas del mundo, arrasaron Allende y pueblos aledaños como una inundación repentina; demolieron casas y comercios, secuestraron y mataron a docenas, posiblemente a cientos, de hombres, mujeres y niños.
La destrucción y las desapariciones se sucedieron erráticamente por semanas. Solo unos pocos familiares de las víctimas — en su mayoría los que no vivían en Allende o habían huido — se atrevieron a buscar ayuda. “Quisiera aclarar que Allende parece zona de guerra” se lee en un informe acerca de una persona desaparecida. La mayoría de las personas a las que les pregunté por mis familiares respondió que no debería seguir buscándolos, porque a los de afuera no los querían y los desaparecían”.
Pero, a diferencia de la mayoría de los lugares en México destrozados por la guerra contra las drogas, lo que pasó en Allende no se originó en México. Comenzó en Estados Unidos, cuando la Administración para el Control de Drogas (DEA) logró un triunfo inesperado. Un agente persuadió a un importante miembro de los Zetas para que le entregara los números de identificación rastreables de los teléfonos celulares que pertenecían a dos de los capos más buscados del cartel, Miguel Ángel Treviño y su hermano Omar.
Entonces, la DEA se la jugó. Compartió la información con una unidad de la policía mexicana que, por mucho tiempo, ha tenido problemas con filtraciones de información, aunque sus miembros habían sido entrenados y aprobados por la DEA. Casi de inmediato, los Treviño se enteraron de que habían sido traicionados. Los hermanos planearon vengarse de los presuntos delatores, de sus familias y de cualquiera que tuviera un vínculo remoto con ellos.
La atrocidad en Allende fue particularmente sorprendente, porque los Treviño no solo habían basado algunas de sus operaciones en las cercanías — con movimientos de decenas de millones de dólares en drogas y armas por la zona cada mes — sino que también habían hecho del pueblo su casa.
Durante años después de la matanza, las autoridades mexicanas solamente hicieron esfuerzos inconsistentes para investigar. Erigieron un monumento en Allende para honrar a las víctimas, sin determinar por completo lo que había sido de ellas ni castigar a los responsables. Al final, autoridades estadounidenses ayudaron a México a capturar a los Treviño, pero nunca reconocieron el costo devastador de ello. En Allende, la gente sufrió, sobre todo en silencio, porque estaban demasiado asustados para hablar públicamente.
Hace un año, ProPublica y National Geographic emprendieron la labor de juntar las piezas de lo que pasó en este pueblo del estado de Coahuila: dejar a los que sufrieron la mayor parte del ataque, y a los que tuvieron algún papel en él, que contaran la historia en sus propias palabras, con frecuencia con gran riesgo para sus vidas. Voces como estas rara vez se han escuchado durante la lucha contra el narcotráfico: funcionarios locales que abandonaron sus puestos, familias asediadas por el cartel y por sus propios vecinos, operarios del cartel que cooperaron con la DEA y vieron asesinados a sus amigos y familias, el fiscal estadounidense que supervisó el caso y el agente de la DEA que lideró la investigación y quien, como la mayoría de la gente en esta historia, tiene vínculos familiares en ambos lados de la frontera.
Cuando le preguntaron durante una entrevista sobre su papel en el caso, el agente, Richard Martinez se desplomó en su silla, con lágrimas en los ojos. “¿Cómo me hizo sentir el hecho de que la información se hubiera filtrado? Prefiero no decirlo, para ser honesto con usted. Me gustaría dejarlo así. Prefiero no decirlo”.
La Masacre
Mientras caía la tarde del viernes 18 de marzo de 2011, hordas de sicarios del cartel de los Zetas empezaron a entrar en Allende.
Guadalupe García
Funcionaria jubilada
Estábamos comiendo en Los Compadres y entraron dos hombres. Se notaba que no eran de aquí. Tenían un aspecto distinto. Eran unos huercos, entre 18 y 20 años. Pidieron 50 hamburguesas para llevar. Fue entonces cuando nos dimos cuenta de que algo pasaba y decidimos que era mejor irnos a casa.
Martín Márquez
Vendedor de hot dogs
Empezaron a suceder cosas en la tarde. Llegaron hombres armados. Fueron casa por casa buscando a las familias de quienes los habían traicionado. A las 11:00 de la noche ya no había movimiento de autos en la calle. No había movimiento de ningún tipo.
Etelvina Rodríguez
Maestra de secundaria y esposa de la víctima Everardo Elizondo
Por lo regular, mi marido, Everardo, llegaba a las 7 o 7:30 de la tarde. Yo lo esperaba en mi casa. Dieron las 7, 7:30, 8, 9. Y empecé a marcarle. El teléfono estaba fuera de servicio. Pensé que a lo mejor estaba en casa de su mamá y se le descargó la pila. Le llamé a su mamá. Me dijo que no lo había visto y que a lo mejor andaba por ahí con algunos amigos. Pero no tenía sentido. Él me hubiera avisado. Me salí a buscarlo en el auto.
Se sentía un ambiente tenso. Eran las 9 de la noche, no tan tarde para ser viernes. El pueblo estaba completamente solo.
A pocos kilómetros a las afueras del pueblo, los sicarios bajaron en varios ranchos vecinos a lo largo de una carretera de dos carriles pobremente alumbrada. Las propiedades pertenecían a uno de los clanes más antiguos de Allende, los Garza. La familia se dedicaba principalmente a la ganadería y realizaba trabajos diversos, entre ellos la minería de carbón. Pero, de acuerdo con miembros de la familia, algunos de ellos también trabajaban para el cartel.
Ahora, estos nexos resultaban mortíferos. Entre aquellos de quienes los Zetas sospechaban que eran soplones — de manera equivocada, se supo más tarde — estaba José Luis Garza, Jr., un miembro del cartel de rango relativamente bajo. Cuando las camionetas llenas de sicarios invadieron Allende, uno de sus primeros destinos fue un rancho que pertenecía al padre de Garza, Luis, a pocos kilómetros del pueblo, junto a una carretera de dos carriles mal iluminada. Era el día de pago y varios trabajadores habían ido al rancho por su dinero. Cuando aparecieron los sicarios, tomaron como rehén a todo aquel que encontraron. Al anochecer, las llamas empezaron a alzarse desde uno de los grandes almacenes de bloques de cemento del rancho, donde el cartel quemó los cuerpos de los muertos.
Sarah Angelita Lira
Farmacéutica y esposa de la víctima Rodolfo Garza, Jr.
Llegó mi marido, Rodolfo. Me dijo: ‘Me duele muchísimo la cabeza, me voy a bañar’. Estaba totalmente cubierto de polvo porque estaba abriendo una nueva mina de carbón. Después de un rato empezó a sonar su teléfono. Yo pensaba que había ido a acostarse, pero salió del dormitorio, totalmente vestido, y me miró a los ojos de una forma que nunca había visto antes. ‘No salgas de la casa — me dijo. Está sucediendo algo. No sé qué es, pero no salgas de la casa. Voy y vuelvo.’
Poco después, me llamó: ‘Sal de la casa — dijo. Y no te vayas en nuestra camioneta.’ Me dijo que le pidiera a mi primo que nos llevara a casa de mi madre a nuestra hija, Sofía, y a mí.
El rancho de su tío Luis estaba en llamas. Y había muchos hombres armados en la entrada. Su hermana no contestaba su teléfono. Su padre tampoco contestaba. Rodolfo mandó a uno de sus obreros, Pilo, al portón a ver qué pasaba. Pilo había sido militar. Los hombres abrieron. Pilo entró, pero nunca salió.
Rodolfo estaba inconsolable. No encontraba a sus padres. No encontraba a su hermana. Y ahora su mejor empleado había desaparecido. Me dijo que iba a intentar entrar al rancho por la parte trasera.
Unos minutos más tarde, llamó otra vez. Hablaba tan bajo que casi no podía oírlo. Me dijo: ‘Sálganse de Allende. Dile a tu prima que te lleve a Eagle Pass. No hagas maletas. Váyanse nomás.’
Evaristo Treviño (sin relación con los jefes de los Zetas)
Ex jefe de bomberos
Oficiales a mi cargo respondieron a reportes de un incendio en uno de los ranchos de los Garza. Hablamos de menos de tres kilómetros desde Allende. Aparentemente se celebraba un convivio de la familia Garza. Entre los primeros que acudieron al lugar había bomberos con una máquina de apoyo. Se percataron de que había personas conectadas con el crimen organizado, las cuales les indicaron, de forma muy vulgar y a punta de pistola, que se retiraran. Dijeron que iba a haber muchos incidentes. Que íbamos a recibir muchas llamadas de emergencia sobre balaceras, incendios y cosas así. Nos dijeron que no teníamos autorización para responder.
En mi papel como jefe de bomberos, lo que hice fue avisar a mi superior, quien, en este caso, era el alcalde. Le dije que encarábamos una situación imposible y que lo único que podíamos hacer era mantenernos al margen por la amenaza que también enfrentábamos. Había demasiados hombres armados. Temíamos por nuestras vidas. No podíamos responder a las balas con agua.
Desde Allende, los sicarios avanzaron hacia el norte a lo largo de un paisaje llano y seco, acorralando a gente mientras cubrían los 55 kilómetros hasta la ciudad de Piedras Negras, una extensión mugrienta de fábricas ensambladoras sobre el río Bravo. Los atacantes condujeron a muchas de sus víctimas hasta el rancho de los Garza, incluyendo a Gerardo Heath, jugador de futbol de secundaria de 15 años, y Édgar Ávila, de 36 años e ingeniero en una fábrica. Ninguno de los dos tenía nada que ver con el cartel o con la gente que el cartel creía que trabajaba con la DEA. Solo estaban ahí.
Claudia Sánchez
Directora de asuntos culturales y madre de la víctima Gerardo Heath
Estaba empacando porque nos íbamos a San Antonio a las cinco de la mañana para ir a un partido de futbol. Gerardo iba a jugar, así que teníamos que estar ahí temprano. Gerardo y su hermana hacían tonterías afuera. Me asomé por la ventana y vi que llegaban dos amigos de Gerardo en coche. Eran nuestros vecinos.
Gerardo entró y me preguntó si podía ir con sus amigos. Le contesté: ‘No, Gerardo. Tenemos que empacar.’ Lo siguiente que supe fue que Gerardo traía puesta la ropa que le habíamos comprado por su cumpleaños. Acababa de cumplir 15. Su camisa era azul y hacía juego con sus ojos. Me dijo: ‘Anda, mamá. No me tardo.’
Le dije: ‘Está bien, Gerardo. No tardes.’
Alrededor de las 10 de aquella noche, mi marido llamó al celular de Gerardo para saber a qué hora volvería a casa. Gerardo no respondió. Mi marido llamó otra vez. Nada. Poco después tocaron a la puerta. Eran amigos de Gerardo, de la escuela. Parecían aterrorizados. Les pregunté: ‘¿Qué pasa? ¿Dónde está Gerardo?’
Los muchachos dijeron: ‘Se lo llevaron.’
Pregunté: ‘¿De qué están hablando? ¿Quién se lo llevó?.’
Los muchachos dijeron que vieron a Gerardo y a nuestros vecinos frente a la casa de ellos. Llegó una camioneta llena de hombres armados. Los hombres subieron a los vecinos y a Gerardo a la camioneta y se fueron. Los muchachos no reconocieron a los hombres. Y, como tenían armas, no se atrevieron a decir nada.
Unos minutos después llamamos al alcalde de Piedras Negras. Estaba en una boda. Nos dijo que se sentía terrible por lo que nos había pasado, pero que no había nada que él pudiera hacer. Ni una sola patrulla llegó.
Gerardo Heath, un jugador de futbol de la escuela secundaria de 15 años de Piedras Negras, fue una de las víctimas. Estaba pasando un rato con amigos cuando los Zetas se los llevaron a él, a dos amigos y a sus padres. Se presume que están muertos. El número que Heath llevaba en su malla de futbol, 55, cubre los escaparates de comercios y los parachoques de vehículos en su pueblo natal, un símbolo de la indignación que ha despertado su asesinato. Como muchas de las personas que fueron asesinadas durante la matanza, Heath no tenía nada que ver con el narcotráfico.María Eugenia Vela
Abogada y esposa de la víctima Édgar Ávila
Estaba en el trabajo, esperando a que el juez firmara unos proyectos de sentencia que yo había escrito, cuando me habló Édgar para decirme que Toño, su amigo, lo había invitado a ver un partido de futbol. Yo estaba embarazada y, cuando llegué a casa, me sentía muy cansada. Édgar le había dado de cenar a nuestra hija y la bañó. Le pedí que me comprara empanadas antes de irse. Me las trajo y me dio un beso.
No fue sino hasta que me desperté, a las 2 de la mañana, que me di cuenta de que no estaba Édgar. No entraba ninguna de mis llamadas. Me dije: ‘Qué raro que Édgar no me haya hablado.’ Édgar siempre me hablaba.
Me quedé en un sillón esperándolo el resto de la noche, hasta alrededor de las 6:30 de la mañana. Entonces llamé a mi hermana. Le dije que Édgar no había llegado a casa. Entonces ella vino a mi casa y, en pijama, fui con ella y mi cuñado a casa de Toño. No había nadie, pero había signos de violencia. Estaba todo tirado.
A la mañana siguiente, sábado 19 de marzo, los sicarios llamaron a varios operarios de maquinaria pesada y les ordenaron demoler docenas de casas y comercios en toda la zona. Muchas de las propiedades fueron saqueadas a plena luz del día, en colonias prósperas y transitadas, a la vista no solo de transeúntes, sino cerca de oficinas gubernamentales, jefaturas de policía y puestos militares. Los sicarios invitaron a la gente del pueblo a tomar lo que quisiera, desencadenando una ola de saqueos.
Los registros del gobierno obtenidos por ProPublica y National Geographic indican que a las autoridades estatales encargadas de responder ante emergencias les llovieron unas 250 llamadas de personas que reportaban disturbios, incendios, riñas e “invasiones a hogares” por toda la zona. Los entrevistados señalaron que nadie acudió a ayudar.
Rodríguez
Esposa de una de las víctimas
Escucha
El sábado empezó todo. Empiezan a tronar casas. Empieza a entrar la gente, a saquear, y todo lo que yo podía pensar era dónde podría estar Everardo. Todo el sábado lo pasé buscándolo y llamando a la gente para preguntar: ‘¿Qué has sabido?.’
Una persona me dijo: ‘Vi a hombres armados.’ Otra me dijo: ‘Las bodegas se siguen quemando. El humo es muy negro, es como si estuvieran quemando llantas. Es un humo muy negro, espantoso.’
Recibí una llamada de un hombre que trabajaba con mi marido. Mi marido criaba gallos de pelea. En esta región, las peleas de gallos son muy populares. Él trabajaba para José Luis Garza, pero no de tiempo completo. Solo iba en las mañanas y en las tardes a alimentar a los animales.
El hombre me dijo: ‘Las cosas están muy feas ahí en el rancho. No sabemos qué pasó con toda la gente.’ Yo pregunté: ‘¿Cómo que qué pasó con la gente? ¿Cuál gente?.’
Dijo que varios de los que trabajaban con mi marido no habían llegado a sus casas en la noche. Uno andaba con el tractor. Otro andaba regando. Y nadie regresó a sus casas.
Le pregunté: ‘¿Pues qué hacemos? Vamos a buscarlos.’ Me dijo: ‘Ni te acerques para allá, porque te llevan a ti también.’
Pasó algo que se me quedó aquí, esa imagen de cómo la gente entró a las forrajeras y sacaban los costales de alimento para los animales, hasta los pericos, traían las jaulas. Traían lámparas y juegos de comedor.
A mí, la imagen que se me quedó muy grabada fue de una motocicleta pequeña en la que, atrás del que manejaba, iba una señora. La mujer había convertido una sábana en morral. La traía así como tipo Santa Claus, a un lado, llena de cosas. Y del otro lado, en la mano llevaba una lámpara. Y así iban en la moto, no podían equilibrarse, parecía que se iban a caer, pero ellos felices, porque ya llevaban no sé qué tantas cosas.
Márquez
Vendedor de hot dogs
Escucha
Dos amigos míos se dedicaban a recolectar y vender chatarra. Se dieron cuenta de que el rancho estaba en llamas y los dueños ya se habían ido. Así que fueron — el papá y su hijo — para ver si había algo de valor para cargar. Vieron una freeza [un congelador] al lado de la carretera, una freeza grande. Y la quisieron mover. Pero estaba muy pesada. Y el padre dijo: ‘Ven ayúdame, vamos a echarla pa’rriba.’ La abrieron y había dos cuerpos ahí adentro. Huyeron.
Evaristo Rodríguez
Veterinario y vicealcalde de Allende en aquella época
Se reunió todo el consejo municipal, no formalmente, solo estábamos reunidos: el alcalde, todos los regidores, el director de seguridad pública también. Y pues sí, había muchas preguntas. Lo principal: ‘¿Qué está pasando?.’ Pero todo el mundo quería saber, sobre todo, el porqué de las cosas. Ya todos sabíamos que había una balacera y algunos casos de desaparecidos y muertos.
Sí se preguntó mucho qué hacíamos, pero nadie quería hacerse cargo. Uno de los regidores incluso dijo: ‘Oye, pues vámonos de aquí, de la presidencia, no vaya a ser que vengan por nosotros.’
No me quería sentir héroe, pero sí quería que al menos nos quedáramos en nuestras oficinas para que la gente viera que no la habíamos abandonado. Pero todos los funcionarios querían irse. Todos se enfocaron en sus propias familias.
Con todo lo que estábamos viviendo, desconfiábamos de todos. Nos dábamos cuenta de que había una situación de doble gobierno; no sé si me explico: el gobierno oficial de Coahuila y lo que es la delincuencia, que tenía el mando. Sabíamos que la policía ya estaba infiltrada.
El director de seguridad pública nos comentó: ‘Es algo entre ellos.’ No dijo nada más. No hacía falta. Yo entendí: ‘No investiguen y no se metan, o ya verán.’
A la vista de transeúntes y no lejos de la estación de policía, el departamento de los bomberos y un recinto militar, los Zetas demolieron casas y comercios en Allende. El hombre que era alcalde durante la masacre todavía vive al otro lado de la calle frente a esta casa. Inicialmente, reportó que no había visto ningún indicio de violencia.Lira
Esposa de una de las víctimas
La última llamada con Rodolfo fue al cuarto para las 12. Sonaba agotado. Todavía no sabía nada de sus padres. Le dije que había hecho todo lo que podía por ellos y que ahora era tiempo de pensar en Sofía y en mí. Le rogué que viniera a Eagle Pass con nosotros. Él dijo: ‘Bueno, ahí voy.’
Nunca más escuché de él.
Sánchez
Madre de una de las víctimas
No hay un manual que te diga cómo actuar cuando alguien te arrebata un hijo. No hay un primer paso. Te vuelves loca. Quieres correr, pero no sabes adónde. Quieres gritar, pero no sabes si alguien está escuchando. Uno de mis primos sugirió que lo pusiera en Facebook. Así que escribí: ‘Devuélvanme a mi hijo. Si alguien sabe dónde está, tráiganmelo de vuelta.’
Vela
Esposa de una de las víctimas
¿Cómo puedo explicar lo que sentí? Era como si aquel día me hubieran secuestrado a mí también. De alguna manera, yo también morí. Mataron el futuro que teníamos, los planes, los sueños, las ilusiones, la paz, todo. En aquella época había vivido más tiempo con Édgar del que había vivido sin él. Solamente piense usted en esto. Además, estaba embarazada, no podía tomar ni un tranquilizante. Tenía que intentar mantenerme ecuánime, muy tranquila, pero llegaba a mi casa y sentía que se me caía encima. No encontraba dónde sentarme sin sentir que las paredes se me caían. No alcanzaba a comprender. Fíjese, a pesar de ser abogada, no alcanzaba a comprender qué había pasado.
Muchas de las víctimas fueron traídas a un rancho en las afueras de Allende, propiedad de la familia Garza. Se acusa al cartel de convertir este almacén, que contenía enseres y comida para animales, en un incinerador de cadáveres. Cenizas, un rosario, y lo que parecen ser hebillas de cinturones descansan en el carbonizado suelo de concreto.
El Operativo
Unos meses antes, en las afueras de Dallas, la DEA había lanzado el operativo Too Legit to Quit [Demasiado Legítimo para Rendirse], después de unas redadas que tuvieron resultados sorprendentes. En una, la policía había encontrado 802,000 dólares en efectivo, empacados al vacío y escondidos en el tanque de gasolina de una camioneta. El conductor dijo que trabajaba para un tipo al que solo conocía como El Diablo.
Después de más detenciones, el agente Richard Martinez, de la DEA, y el fiscal federal adjunto Ernest Gonzalez identificaron a El Diablo como Jose Vasquez, Jr., de 30 años, un nativo de Dallas que había empezado a vender droga cuando estaba en la secundaria y que entonces era el distribuidor de cocaína más importante de los Zetas en el este de Texas, donde movía camiones llenos de drogas, armas y dinero cada mes.
<Mientras se completaban los preparativos para detenerlo, Vasquez se fugó por la frontera hacia Allende, donde buscó protección de los miembros del círculo interno del cartel.
Pero Martinez y Gonzalez vieron en su huida una oportunidad. Si podían persuadir a Vasquez para que cooperara con ellos, les daría acceso a los altos rangos de un cartel, que era notoriamente impenetrable, y la posibilidad de capturar a sus jefes, especialmente a los Treviño, conocidos como Z-40 y Z-42, que habían dejado un sendero de cadáveres en su escalada a la cima de la lista de los más buscados por la DEA. Miguel Ángel Treviño era conocido como Z-40 y Omar como Z-42.
Lo que Martinez quería eran los PIN (números de identificación personal) rastreables de los teléfonos Blackberry de los Treviño. Vasquez, después de huir, le había dado al agente una amplia ventaja. Su mujer y su madre todavía vivían en Texas.
Jose Vasquez, Jr.
Operario convicto de los Zetas
Mi mujer me llama como a las 6 de la mañana. Me dice: ‘Oye, la casa está rodeada.’
Le pregunté: ‘¿Qué quieres decir con que está rodeada?.’
Contestó: ‘Sí, hay mucha policía afuera.’
Le dije: ‘Pues, escucha, probablemente te van a detener. Déjame llamar [a mi abogado]. Sobre todo, no les digas nada. Intenta relajarte nomás. Te sacaremos con una fianza.’
Le dije: ‘Destruye los teléfonos.’ En la casa teníamos inodoros que descargaban con mucha fuerza, así que los rompió y los tiró al escusado.
Entonces me llamó Richard [Martinez] desde allí. Me puso en el altavoz, para que mi mujer pudiera escuchar.
Me advirtió que la iba a detener. Pensé que era un engaño, así que le dije: ‘Haz lo que tengas que hacer.’
Ernest Gonzalez
Fiscal federal adjunto
Al principio, lo único que queríamos era que Jose se rindiera y cooperara, para que nos explicara la estructura de la organización de los Zetas. Creo que esto nos habría aplacado en aquel momento, porque realmente no sabíamos cuán cerca estaba — cuán próximo era — de Miguel y Omar. No sabíamos — hasta que empezó a decir con quién hablaba, con quién se veía — lo que estaban haciendo. Fue entonces cuando nuestra perspectiva de lo que podríamos hacer, y cómo, empezó a cambiar. Empezamos a idear planes para capturarlos.
Cuando Jose no se entregó y vimos que estaba dispuesto a sacrificar a su esposa, supimos que teníamos que apretar las tuercas aún más, o presionarlo más.
Richard le dijo: ‘Se van a presentar cargos contra tu madre.’
Vasquez
Operario convicto de los Zetas
Le dije: ‘Hombre, oye, me voy ahorita mismo a la frontera, cruzo y me entrego. No peleo para nada. Firmaré todos tus papeles de incautación. Dame cadena perpetua. Tira la llave a la basura. No me importa. Pero deja a mi mujer en paz. Deja a mi madre en paz.’
Él dijo: ‘Oye, la única forma en que tu mujer no vaya a la cárcel, que tu madre no vaya a la cárcel, es si cooperas con nosotros.’
Le contesté: ‘Richard, no quiero cooperar, hombre. Esto va a traer muchos muertos.’
Él dijo: ‘Lo único que tengo que decirte es que, si no cooperas, ellas van a ir a la cárcel contigo.’
Le pregunté a Richard: ‘¿Qué quieres?.’
Los militares ayudan a la policía local a patrullar Piedras Negras, vigilando desde la periferia para que los agentes puedan interrogar a sospechosos de ser drogadictos o pandilleros. El alcalde actual de Piedras Negras, Fernando Purón, dijo que los soldados no solo proporcionan potencia de fuego adicional sino que impiden que la policía caiga bajo el control de los carteles de la droga — como ha sucedido en el pasado.Richard Martinez
Agente de la DEA
Yo quería los números. Buscábamos capturar a los líderes de los Zetas. Pensé que estos números nos daban la mejor oportunidad de dar con ellos.
A la hora de la verdad, muchos de estos tipos huyen de Estados Unidos. Pero, si creciste aquí, todavía es Estados Unidos, el mejor país del mundo. Todavía quieres volver algún día. Si tu familia está aquí, quieres estar con ellos. Pensé que, una vez que Jose se diera cuenta de que la fiesta se había acabado, iba a hacer lo necesario para ayudarnos. Yo iba a empujarlo para que lo hiciera mientras tuviera la oportunidad.
Esto nos desvía del tema, pero me acuerdo de cuando iba a México de niño. Mi mamá es de allá, de Monterrey. He estado en Coahuila. Tengo familia en Coahuila. No puedes volver ahora. Es triste decirlo, pero no puedes ir por esos caminos rurales. Me encantaría que mi familia regresara, pero no puede.
Vi esos números como una llave. Son muy significativos. Los vi como una oportunidad para detener el reinado de Miguel Ángel y Omar Treviño.
Gonzalez
Fiscal federal adjunto
Era algo personal, totalmente. Era importante por mi origen, por mi herencia personal y por el conocimiento de lo que [los Zetas] le estaban haciendo a México. Pasaba los veranos con mis abuelos en ese país. Tenían granjas y ranchos. Disfruté mi juventud en México. Esta organización estaba destruyendo todo eso con su avaricia y violencia.
Para evitar la captura, los Zetas hicieron que su lugarteniente más cercano en Coahuila, Mario Alfonso “Poncho” Cuéllar, les diera celulares nuevos cada tres o cuatro semanas. Cuéllar le asignó la tarea de comprar teléfonos nuevos a su mano derecha, Héctor Moreno.
Ante la presión de obtener los PIN de los teléfonos, Vasquez recurrió a Moreno, utilizando información que él manejaba. Fue Gilberto, hermano de Moreno, quien había sido sorprendido al volante del camión con 802, 000 dólares en el tanque de gasolina. Con 20 años de prisión por delante, Gilberto había confesado que trabajaba para los Zetas y que el efectivo pertenecía a los hermanos Treviño.
Vasquez organizó que su abogado en Dallas representara a Gilberto y le prometió que no dejaría que nadie en el cartel supiera de las declaraciones incriminadoras de Gilberto. Moreno le devolvió el favor a Vasquez al aceptar conseguirle los números. Pero, llegado el momento, Moreno lo reconsideró.
Héctor Moreno
Ex operario de los Zetas
Los Zetas controlaban todo. Hacían lo que querían. Cuando los soldados iban a una zona, alguien del ejército nos avisaba con antelación.
A veces llegaban aviones llenos de policías federales, con 200 oficiales, pero recibíamos una llamada una semana antes: ‘¿Almacenan algo en tal o cual casa?.’
Respondíamos: ‘No, no hay nada ahí.’
Decían: ‘Qué bueno, porque hay una orden de cateo para ese lugar y los agentes van a llegar el jueves.’
El gobierno nos dijo todo. Así sabía que, si el gobierno conseguía esos números, los Zetas se iban a enterar.
Vasquez
Operario convicto de los Zetas
Escucha
El día que Héctor me iba a dar los números, le llamé. Me dijo: ‘Conseguí los números, pero los tiré.’
Le dije: ‘¿Qué pasó? Dijiste que me los ibas a dar.’
Me contestó: ‘Estos números nos pueden meter en muchos problemas, así que los eché por la ventana.’
Le dije: ‘Tengo a estos tipos esperándome. Les prometí que les iba a dar los números. ¿Y mi familia?.’
Después de un rato lo convencí de que regresáramos al camino donde los había tirado. Lo recorrimos de arriba abajo por cerca de una hora o dos hasta que encontramos el trozo de papel.
Conseguí todos los números: el de 40 y 42, y de todos ellos. No sabía lo que iban a hacer con ellos. Pensé que iban a intentar interceptarlos o algo así. Nunca pensé que iban a mandar los números de vuelta a México. Les dije que no hicieran eso, porque iban a causar la muerte de mucha gente. No solo eso, yo todavía estaba allí. Todavía andaba con esa gente. Me dijeron que no lo harían. Richard me dijo que tenía que confiar en él.
La Ocupación
La gente de Allende no era ajena a la ilegalidad. Por su proximidad a la — los vecinos hacen sus compras de fin de semana en el centro comercial de Eagle Pass, Texas — hacía mucho que familias dedicadas al contrabando vivían tranquilamente en la comunidad. Sin embargo, para 2007, los Zetas se establecieron ahí con el dinero y la fuerza de una ocupación hostil. Eliminaron a rivales, tomaron el control de agencias gubernamentales importantes, convirtieron a la policía local en su secuaz y transformaron la región en un refugio para todo tipo de criminales.
Se asimilaron a la sociedad, casándose con miembros de familias locales o asociándose con ellos. Algunos lugareños se unieron a las filas del cartel, incluyendo a varios miembros de un prominente clan de rancheros y mineros, los Garza.
Carlos Osuna
Empresario retirado y organizador para el Partido Acción Nacional
La violencia que estalló aquí en 2011 no sucedió de un día para otro. Ya había narcotráfico desde hacía mucho. Y, por largo tiempo, solo había un jefe, llamado Vicente Lafuente Guereca. Todos sabían quién era y a qué se dedicaba. Pero había respeto mutuo. Él respetaba a la sociedad y la sociedad lo respetaba. Y, en ese tenor, la vida seguía con cierta normalidad. Las drogas pasaban, pero la sociedad no intervenía. Y Lafuente no intervenía con el gobierno ni con la sociedad civil. No había secuestros. No había nada de eso.
Pero la coexistencia pacífica acabó cuando asesinaron a Lafuente.
Moreno
Ex operario de los Zetas
Cuando llegaron los Zetas, reclutaron a todos para que trabajaran con ellos. Todos los narcos de la región tenían que trabajar para los Zetas. Ya no había grupos independientes. Antes de que llegaran, Coahuila había sido una especie de libre mercado. Quien quisiera podía operar ahí. Los Tejas [banda con base en Nuevo Laredo] estaban ahí. El Chapo [Joaquín Guzmán, cabeza del cartel de Sinaloa] estaba ahí. Estaba abierto de par en par. Pero llegaron los Zetas y mataron a Omar Rubio, de los Tejas. Mataron a Vicente Lafuente y a unas pocas personas importantes más. Y todo el que quedó se les unió.
Mi familia había vivido en la región por mucho tiempo. Del lado de mi mamá tenía familiares que dirigían funerarias y ferreterías. Del lado de mi papá tenían ranchos. Pero la verdad es que nada de eso daba tanto dinero como el tráfico de drogas. Por eso me involucré.
Arriba: Un entrenamiento de la liga juvenil de futbol en Allende. El futbol americano es popular debido a la cercanía a Texas. Debajo: Una familia celebra una quinceañera, una elaborada fiesta que se celebra para niñas mexicanas cuando cumplen 15. La niña del cumpleaños creció en los alrededores de Forth Worth, Texas. Pero su padre es originalmente de la zona de Allende, y trajo a la familia de vuelta hasta allí para el acontecimiento. Muchas familias en Allende tienen parientes en ambos lados de la frontera EEUU-Mexico.Ángel Humberto García
Médico y ex legislador
Cuando fui miembro del Congreso, los agricultores y rancheros de Allende empezaron a venir a verme. Estaban aterrados porque sus vidas eran amenazadas. Dijeron que los criminales se habían apoderado de sus propiedades. Algunos me contaron que la única manera en que podían entrar a su propia tierra era si les pedían permiso a los criminales.
Uno de ellos era José Piña. Me comentó que había pedido ayuda a la policía y le dijeron que no podían hacer nada. Había un puesto de control militar a pocos metros de su propiedad, así que le pregunté: ‘¿Y los soldados?.’ Me contestó: ‘Les he dicho a los soldados y nada.’ Pregunté: ‘¿Qué quiere decir con nada?.’ Dijo: ‘No van a hacer nada.’
Indicó que [los Zetas] le habían ofrecido dinero por su rancho, pero no lo iba a tomar. Se había quejado con el presidente municipal y el gobernador, pero no conseguía que nadie lo escuchara. Así que vino a mí y me dio una carta escrita a mano para el presidente.
Dos días después, el señor Piña estaba muerto.
El diario mexicano El Universal publicó un artículo sobre el asesinato en 2009. Informó que el cuerpo de Piña, hallado detrás de una escuela primaria católica, estaba tan lleno de balas que parecía que había sido “cosido a balazos”. El texto decía que le habían cortado la lengua y los dedos, uno de los cuales se lo habían metido en la boca. Los asesinos dejaron una nota escrita: “Nosotros no nos metemos con ustedes, ustedes no se metan con nosotros”.
Moreno
Moreno, ex operario de los Zetas
Los Zetas mataron a Piña porque su rancho estaba ubicado en el río Bravo. Tanto 40 como 42 solían pasar por ahí a diario. Dejaban el portón abierto y entonces su ganado se escapaba. Se quejó al respecto con los militares. Los soldados les dijeron a los Zetas y por eso fueron y lo mataron.
Ricardo Treviño (no tiene parentesco con los líderes de los Zetas)
Ex presidente municipal de Allende
Una noche [los Zetas] golpearon a mi hijo. Fue muy feo. Tenía moretones en todo el cuerpo. Tenía la cara hinchada. Le pusieron una ametralladora en la cabeza y amenazaron con dispararle. Había estado tomando con unos amigos. Se detuvieron en una gasolinería. [Los Zetas] lo golpearon ahí, en frente de la policía.
Fui a la policía y pregunté: ‘¿Por qué por que chingados permitieron que estos cabrones golpearan a mi hijo?.’ Tomé las llaves de sus patrullas. Les dije: ‘¿De qué sirve tener oficiales en las calles si no van a proteger a la gente?.’
Me dijeron: ‘No podemos con ellos. Nos matan si tratamos de detenerlos. Traen muchas armas.’
Más tarde salí, me puse a tomar demasiado. Cuando caminaba hacia mi auto, vi a algunos policías cerca. Les grité: ‘Díganle al jefe [de los Zetas] que lo quiero ver.’
Al día siguiente, mientras hacía unas diligencias en el pueblo, vi una hilera de autos que venía hacia mí. Los autos frenaron frente a mí. ‘El jefe quiere hablar con usted.’ Me llevaron a uno de los autos. Entré junto al conductor. Era 42.
Preguntó: ‘¿En qué le puedo servir, señor alcalde?.’
Le dije: ‘Escuche, ¿cómo se sentiría si alguien le partiera la madre a su hijo? ¿No se encabronaría?.’
‘Por supuesto,’ respondió.
‘Pues estoy encabronado — le dije. Ustedes piensan que son muy cabrones porque tienen armas y no hay nada que podamos hacer. Puede que tenga razón. Pero en lo que a mi familia se refiere, si quiere tocar a alguien, viene conmigo. Si quiere matar a alguien, máteme a mí.’
Dijo: ‘No lo voy a matar. Usted no es mi enemigo, siempre y cuando se ocupe de sus asuntos y nos deje encargarnos de los nuestros. Pero, por favor, mantenga a su hijo en casa por la noche. Si quiere beber con sus amigos, que lo haga en casa. La noche es nuestra.’
Fernando Purón
Presidente municipal de Piedras Negras
Hubo un punto en el que empezamos a ver señales de que [los Zetas] habían empezado una especie de toma hegemónica de todas las actividades comerciales. Además del tráfico de drogas y de armas, echaron a andar compañías y negocios en el sector de servicios, en bienes raíces, en la construcción.
Por ejemplo, empezaron a operar casas de cambio en la frontera, para cambiar dólares por pesos. Montaron conciertos y bailes. Abrieron restaurantes, bares y zonas rojas. Se metieron en la compraventa de autos usados. Luego fueron por negocios más grandes. Empezaron a construir centros comerciales, hoteles y casinos.
Y empezaron a vivir aquí. Después de un tiempo, sus hijos empezaron a asistir a las escuelas con nuestros hijos.
No crea que vivían en las afueras o en algún rancho al margen de la ciudad. Vivían justo aquí, frente al ayuntamiento. De hecho, desde este balcón puedo señalarle una de las casas en las que vivían.
Todos les tenían miedo. Los Zetas eran más fuertes que el gobierno, ¿entiende? Eran más fuertes económicamente. Mejor organizados. Estaban mejor armados. Todos les tenían miedo y, los que no, habían sido comprados.
Osuna
Empresario retirado y organizador para el Partido Acción Nacional
El mayor efecto en la sociedad fue en nuestra sensación de libertad. Ya no podía ir a mi rancho, o incluso a la esquina, sin miedo de que alguien me confundiera con alguien más y me golpeara, o peor. Esa pérdida fue lo que más sentimos.
Y entonces, incluso si no estábamos involucrados [con el cartel], establecían vínculos con nuestras familias. Uno de ellos se casaba con una prima o hija de un amigo cercano, y de repente estaban en las mismas fiestas o cenas de Navidad.
Al principio solo nos quedábamos callados por miedo. Pero, por desgracia, el tráfico de drogas trae mucho dinero. Y nos gusta el dinero. Así que estos tipos se aparecen con él y empiezan a desparramarlo, y, antes de que uno se dé cuenta, son miembros del Club de Leones.
No era difícil darse cuenta. Somos una comunidad pequeña. Todos conocemos el nivel de ingresos de todos. Así que cuando alguien vive con 1 000 pesos un día y con tres millones de pesos al siguiente, dices espérate, algo está pasando. Desafortunadamente, todos lo aceptamos.
En octubre de 2015, las autoridades mexicanas erigieron un monumento para honrar a las víctimas de la masacre. Algunos residentes dicen que lo vieron como una afrenta, especialmente porque el gobierno no había hecho ningún esfuerzo real durante años para investigar la masacre. Aunque el obelisco de concreto se asienta en una rotonda de tráfico muy transitada en la entrada de Allende, poca gente se para a visitarlo.
La Filtración
Alrededor de tres semanas después de que Vasquez le diera los números PIN a la DEA, los jefes del cartel recibieron la noticia de que uno de los suyos los había traicionado y lanzaron una ola de venganza.
Fuentes oficiales cercanas al caso dijeron que un supervisor de la DEA en Ciudad de México compartió información relacionada con los números con una unidad de la policía federal mexicana conocida como Unidad de Investigaciones Sensibles, cuyos agentes habían sido entrenados y examinados por la DEA. A pesar de ello, tenía un pobre historial manteniendo información fuera de las manos de delincuentes. Un oficial de la unidad, dijeron las fuentes, fue el responsable de la filtración. Cuando ocurrieron los hechos, los jefes de la unidad no respondieron a múltiples solicitudes de entrevistas.
Sin embargo, a principios de este año, uno de los supervisores de la unidad, Iván Reyes Arzate, se entregó a las autoridades federales estadounidenses para enfrentar cargos por compartir información sobre las investigaciones de la DEA con narcotraficantes. No queda claro si Reyes fue la fuente de la filtración en el caso de Allende.
No fue difícil para los Zetas reducir la lista de delatores bajo sospecha, porque muy poca gente tenía acceso a sus números PIN. Entre ellos estaban Mario Alfonso “Poncho” Cuéllar, el lugarteniente más importante de los Treviño en Coahuila, y Héctor Moreno, mano derecha de Cuéllar.
Sin decírselo a Cuéllar, Moreno le había dado los números PIN a Vasquez. Le estaba devolviendo un favor. El hermano de Moreno, Gilberto, era el conductor del camión que había sido detenido con 802,000 dólares en el tanque de gasolina. Frente a la posibilidad de pasar 20 años en prisión, Gilberto había confesado que trabajaba para los Zetas y que el dinero pertenecía a los Treviño. Vasquez había arreglado que su abogado representara a Gilberto y prometió que impediría que nadie más del cartel supiera sobre sus declaraciones incriminatorias.
Mario Alfonso “Poncho” Cuéllar
Operario convicto de los Zetas
Escucha
¿Cómo sabía que había bronca? Porque yo tenía 596 kilos de cocaína del cartel y 40 mandó a un tipo para quitármelos. Esto era algo que les había visto hacer muchas veces. Cada vez que 40 planeaba matar a alguien en la organización, primero se aseguraba de recuperar su mercancía.
Me mandó una foto de sí mismo, cubierto con dibujos de sapos. Al pie de la foto escribió: ‘Mira, güey, me balacearon por los pinches sapos.’ Sapos es la palabra que utilizan para los soplones.
Llamé a 40 y le pregunté: ‘¿Oye, qué onda con eso?.’ No respondió. Lo único que me dijo fue: ‘Necesito verte. ¿Dónde vas a estar más tarde?.’
Le dije que iba a estar en las carreras de caballos. Pero no fui. Llamé a gente mía y les pedí que checaran qué pasaba allí. Después de llegar, me llamaron y me dijeron ‘Estás fregado.’ Uno de los hombres de 40 estaba allí, mentándome la madre porque no había ido. Ahí supe que me tenía que ir.
Empecé a llamar a toda mi gente, les dije: ‘Sálganse, que hay bronca.’ Ninguno de ellos me hizo caso, desafortunadamente. Cuando 40 no pudo encontrarme, fue por ellos.
Vasquez
Operario convicto de los Zetas
Héctor [Moreno] me llamó y me dijo que se venía un desmadre infernal. Me preguntó qué había hecho con los números. Le dije que se los había entregado a la DEA. Me dijo: ‘Algo está pasando. De alguna manera, los Zetas se enteraron.’
Le llamé a Richard [Martinez] y le pregunté: ‘¿Qué hiciste con los números?.’ Contestó: ‘Hombre, los mandaron a México.’
Le dije: ‘Hombre, ¿cómo dejaste que eso pasara? Te dije lo que iba a pasar si esos números llegaban a México.’
Richard respondió: ‘Hombre, yo no fui. No fue mi decisión. Vino de más arriba. El jefe lo hizo. Mandaron los números a México pensando que tenían un amigo allí en quien podían confiar.’
Gonzalez
Fiscal federal adjunto
Richard llamó y dijo que teníamos los números, pero que habían sido enviados a México. Exclamé: ‘¿Qué?.’ No nos habíamos reunido para discutir cómo manejarlos. Me enojé. Creo que Richard pensaba como yo. Tampoco quería que se hiciera de esa manera, pero estaba fuera de su alcance. Dijo: ‘Son los jefes. Es la gerencia.’
Sabía bien que había problemas de discreción en México. Cuando en ocasiones anteriores se había pasado información, siempre parecía que algo iba a suceder.
Habíamos tratado desde hacía tiempo de ubicar a los Treviño. Tratar de saber cuál sería el mejor mecanismo para poder decir, finalmente, ‘Aquí están, en este momento.’ Sabíamos que se movían mucho. Esta era una de las oportunidades en que podías hacerlo. Era algo con lo que habíamos batallado por mucho tiempo. Habíamos presionado a gente para que cooperara. Habíamos apresado a esposas y madres, y habíamos realizado todos esos grandes arrestos.
Era una gran oportunidad. Pero se desperdició porque no se hizo bien y se puso en riesgo.
Vasquez, Moreno, Cuéllar y Garza, cuyo rancho familiar fue la escena de muchos de los asesinatos, huyeron a Estados Unidos cuando empezó la masacre y accedieron a cooperar con las fuerzas de la ley estadounidenses a cambio de clemencia. Los escalofriantes reportes de lo que estaba pasando en Allende hicieron que las autoridades de Estados Unidos se dieran cuenta de la ira que había desencadenado aquella filtración.
Seis años después de la masacre, no se ha hecho casi ningún esfuerzo para limpiar las escenas de los crímenes. Cuadras enteras yacen en ruinas todavía. Esparcidos entre los escombros están los vestigios de las vidas que llegaron a un fin violento.Cuéllar
Operario convicto de los Zetas
Me acuerdo de mi primera reunión con la DEA. Les expliqué lo que estaba pasando en Coahuila, sobre toda la violencia. Me acuerdo que Ernest [Gonzalez] se levantó de la mesa, salió y enfrentó a uno de los jefes de la DEA. Empezó a gritarle. Dijo algo así como: ‘¿Escuchaste lo que está pasando? Todo esto porque mandaste aquellos números a México.’
Gonzalez
Fiscal federal adjunto
Le dije que esto era una porquería. Las cosas nunca tenían que haber pasado así. Teníamos información que nos podría haber ayudado a capturar a estos tipos, pero, por la manera como se manejó, todo se desmoronó. Y ahora era un maldito lío.
La Secuela
Durante años, las autoridades estatales y federales en México no parecían hacer un esfuerzo verdadero para indagar en el ataque. Las autoridades federales mexicanas dijeron que sus predecesores no investigaron porque los asesinatos no se podían conectar al crimen organizado, pero reconocieron que ellos tampoco han investigado.
Los estimados de los números de muertos y desaparecidos varían enormemente entre la cifra official, 28, y la de las asociaciones de las víctimas, alrededor de 300. ProPublica y National Geographic han identificado alrededor de 60 personas cuyas muertes o desapariciones han sido conectadas por familiares, amigos, grupos de apoyo a víctimas, archivos judiciales o informes periodísticos al asedio realizado por los Zetas aquel año.
Los familiares fueron abandonados a su suerte a la hora de juntar las piezas de lo que pasó y reconstruir sus vidas.
En mayo de 2011, Héctor Reynaldo Pérez levantó un reporte de persona desaparecida con las autoridades estatales. Su hermana, que se había casado con un Garza, había desaparecido junto con su familia entera. Menos de un año después, el mismo Pérez desapareció. Un informe por parte de investigadores independientes de derechos humanos en El Colegio de México halló evidencia de que Pérez había sido visto por última vez en custodia de oficiales de la policía de Allende.
Después de eso, pocos familiares de las víctimas se atrevieron a buscar ayuda con las autoridades, mucho menos a hablar públicamente sobre su tragedia. Varios se mudaron a Estados Unidos.
Ninguna familia perdió más miembros que los Garza. Se cree que casi 20 de ellos están muertos, incluida Olivia Martínez de la Torre, de 81 años, y su bisnieto de siete meses, Mauricio Espinoza. Los hermanos del bebé, Andrea y Arturo, que tenían cinco y tres años en aquel momento, aparecieron en un orfanato de Piedras Negras después del asesinato de sus padres.
Su abuela paterna, Elvira Espinoza, camarera de un hotel en San Antonio, fue por ellos con su esposo.
Elvira Espinoza
Ama de llaves de un hotel y abuela de los niños Espinoza
Andrea dice que fueron en una camioneta hasta un lugar donde las casas no tienen techos. Dijo que los hombres bajaron a su madre, su abuela y su bisabuela. Ellos les dijeron a los niños: ‘Quédense. Solo vamos a hablar con ellas.’
Los hombres tuvieron allí a los niños y les dijeron que se callaran. Que no lloraran. Andrea contó que le cambió los pañales a su hermanito y le preparó su leche.
Ella no recuerda exactamente cuántos días estuvieron ahí, hasta que los hombres la llevaron con Arturo y Mauricio a Piedras Negras. Andrea dice que los dejaron en un parque, pero se llevaron a Mauricio con ellos.
Contó que les había suplicado que le dejaran al bebé. Pero los hombres le dijeron que el niño era muy pequeño y lloraba demasiado para dejarlo ahí con ellos.
Andrea se culpa a sí misma de lo que pasó. Dice: ‘Si hubiera sido más fuerte, Mauricio estaría todavía con nosotros.’
Lira
Esposa de una de las víctimas
Yo sí metí una denuncia. El investigador me dijo que sería confidencial. Me prometió conservar mi identidad en el anonimato. Luego, unos días después, recibí una amenaza. Alguien me llamó al celular y me dijo que, si seguía con la queja, lo mismo que le había pasado a mi marido le pasaría al resto de mi familia. Mis padres aún vivían en Allende. Nunca me habría perdonado si algo les hubiera pasado.
Llamé al investigador ese mismo día. Le dije que me había mentido respecto a mantener mi nombre en secreto y que quería retirar mi demanda.
También fui al consulado mexicano en San Antonio. No creerá lo que me dijeron. Me echaron la culpa. Dijeron: ‘Ah, ahora viene llorando porque su esposo no aparece. Todo este tiempo usted sabía en qué negocios estaban metidos sus familiares, pero no pareció importarle hasta que se vio personalmente afectada.’
Nunca más le pedí nada al gobierno.
Tres años después de la matanza de los Zetas, el gobernador de Coahuila, Rubén Moreira, anunció que oficiales estatales investigarían lo que había sucedido en Allende. Lo informó con bombo y platillo; los oficiales anunciaron una “megaoperativo” para recabar evidencia y averiguar la verdad. Las familias de las víctimas y los habitantes de Allende indican que ha sido poco más que un ardid publicitario. La investigación no ha arrojado resultados de ADN concluyentes ni un cálculo final de los muertos y desaparecidos.
Claudia Sánchez visita la cripta que sirve de memorial para su hijo de 15 años, Gerardo Heath, quien fue secuestrado y asesinado durante el ataque. Las autoridades nunca recuperaron sus restos. En su lugar, le proporcionaron a Sánchez una urna llena de polvo y cenizas del rancho de Luis Garza.
Menos de una docena de sospechosos han sido arrestados, la mayoría eran ex policías locales y peones del narco que seguían órdenes. Nadie ha sido acusado de asesinato. En 2015, la oficina del fiscal especial de Coahuila comenzó una serie de reuniones con familiares de aquellas víctimas que, como creían los investigadores — basados en confesiones — estaban muertos. Emitieron certificados de defunción, pese a no tener cuerpos, que enlistaban causas de muerte como “choque neurogénico” y “combustión total debido a exposición directa al fuego”.
Sánchez
Madre de una de las víctimas
Escucha
Cuando ellos [las autoridades del estado de Coahuila] me dieron la noticia, mi cuerpo quedó sin fuerzas. Me dijeron que Gerardo había sido llevado a un rancho y asesinado. Algo dentro de mí me dijo que era verdad. Aun así pregunté: ‘¿Están seguros de que era él?.’
Me dijeron que un testigo les había dicho que entre las víctimas había una familia con tres niños, y uno de los niños era mi hijo. Me dijeron que había empezado a llorar. Llore y llore. Esto los estaba estresando, así que lo mataron. Híjole. Ahí sí perdí los estribos. ¿Cómo podía haber alguien que mata a un niño de 15 años, que está asustado y llorando?
Los oficiales me preguntaron qué quería. Respondí que quería sus restos. Me dijeron que sería difícil, porque mi hijo fue incinerado junto a mucha otra gente. En su lugar, me trajeron cenizas y tierra del lugar donde murió. Les pregunté si podía ir allí. Me contestaron que no era seguro. Les dije que quería ir de todas maneras. Entonces nos llevaron con unas escoltas.
Me llamó la atención lo cerca que estaba el lugar. Pensé, ‘Gerardo era tan fuerte que, si solo hubiera escapado y llegado hasta la carretera, podría fácilmente haber llegado a casa.’
Rodríguez
Esposa de una de las víctimas
El fiscal y su equipo tenían que llegar en la tarde, pero no lo hicieron sino hasta esa noche. Los esperamos por más de cinco horas. Y, cuando por fin llegaron, solo nos ofrecieron gestos simbólicos. Nos dijeron que nos expedirían certificados de defunción, con información basada en las declaraciones de la gente que había sido arrestada. Y tenían cajitas con tierra para cualquier familiar que las quisiera. Eso fue todo.
Les dije: ‘Esperen. Yo no esperé aquí seis horas para que llegaran y me ofrecieran un certificado de defunción y esta caja. Somos humanos. ¿Cómo pueden pensar que esta es la manera correcta de ayudarnos a darle cierre? Quiero saber de qué se enteraron y dónde. ¿Dónde está la persona que lo mató? ¿Cómo lo mataron?’
Expresaron que las respuestas podrían ser difíciles de escuchar. No querían ser crueles. Les dije que nada podía ser peor que las 20 000 cosas que ya me había imaginado sola.
¿Cómo sabrían los sospechosos el nombre de mi esposo si no eran de aquí? Todo este tiempo habíamos creído que a la gente que había hecho esto la habían traído de otro estado.
Al final nos enteramos de que era gente de aquí. Los monstruos que pensábamos que habían venido de Dios sabe dónde eran monstruos que habían vivido entre nosotros y que habrían tenido que protegernos.
Vela
Esposa de una de las víctimas
Me dieron un acta de defunción con fecha del 19 de marzo de 2011, el día después de que desapareció. Lo único que les pregunté fue si estaban completamente seguros. Me dijeron que los especialistas forenses no habían podido hacer pruebas con los fragmentos que se habían recuperado, así que no estaban 100 % seguros. Pero me dijeron que estaban convencidos de que Édgar estuvo allí en el momento de la masacre. Creo que es porque tenían declaraciones de testigos.
Aún no sé qué creer. No había sabido nada de ellos en cinco años y después, de repente, me piden que crea que el caso está resuelto.
Apuesto a que si usted lograra echar un vistazo al expediente de mi marido, vería que está vacío.
Con todo, con el certificado de defunción empecé a hacer los cambios pendientes. Me mudé de nuestra casa. Solo me fui con nuestra ropa y los muebles de la recámara [de mi hija]. Toda la ropa de Édgar sigue ahí, colgada en el clóset, tal como la dejó.
Por fin pude hablar abiertamente con mi hija sobre lo que había pasado. No había sido capaz de decirle que su papá estaba muerto, porque ¿y si regresaba? Creo que de alguna manera ya lo había descubierto.
Los hermanos Treviño, al final, fueron capturados en 2013 y 2015, en operativos liderados por la marina mexicana. Desde entonces, el dominio del cartel sobre Coahuila se ha debilitado y la vida nocturna ha regresado a Allende, aunque muchos residentes todavía sobrellevan cicatrices emocionales y desconfían de los extraños. Se obsesionan con noticias de violencia vinculada al narcotráfico; temen que los hermanos Treviño controlen el tráfico de drogas desde la cárcel.
El dominio de los Zetas sobre el estado de Coahuila se ha debilitado y la vida nocturna ha regresado a Allende. Cientos de personas acudieron durante el otoño pasado a la Cabalgata, un desfile festivo de vaqueros que dura dos o tres días, se detiene en varios ranchos a lo largo de la zona, y termina con un rodeo nocturno.
La DEA se atribuye a sí misma las capturas, pero no dice si ha investigado cómo terminó en manos de los Zetas la información sobre los números PIN. Terrance Cole, el supervisor de Martinez en Dallas, y Paul Knierim, en aquel entonces supervisor de la DEA en Ciudad de México que ejerció como enlace con la unidad de la policía federal mexicana entrenada por la DEA, se negaron a dar entrevistas.
Knierim fue ascendido y actualmente es el jefe adjunto de operaciones en la oficina central de la DEA en Washington.
Pero Martinez aceptó hablar, con un breve nudo un la garganta cuando le pregunté sobre su papel en la masacre. Distinguido como agente del año en 2011, ahora tiene cáncer de colon y hasta ahora el tratamiento médico ha fallado. Russ Baer, portavoz de la DEA, viajó dos veces desde Washington, D.C., a Texas para monitorear las entrevistas con Martinez y otro agente. Mientras Martinez hablaba, Baer interrumpió para enfatizar que los Zetas más importantes estaban en prisión y que la investigación hecha por la agencia tuvo éxito.
Gonzalez
Fiscal federal adjunto
Obviamente me siento destrozado por esto. Uno sabe que en este tipo de trabajo va a haber consecuencias. La posibilidad de que alguien sea asesinado siempre está ahí. Pero es devastador estar involucrado en algo así y no poder hacer nada.
El objetivo era justo: conseguir la detención de estos tipos y meterlos a la cárcel para que dejaran de matar gente. Pero, en aquel punto de la investigación, tuvo el efecto opuesto.
Había escuchado de la brutalidad de Miguel Ángel y Omar Treviño, y de la violencia sin sentido que habían cometido en el pasado, pero no me cabía en la cabeza que pudiera ser así; que cualquiera remotamente vinculado contigo, incluso por fuera del narcotráfico, pudiera ser levantado y asesinado. Eso no parecía posible. Quizá debería serlo. Pero no lo pareció hasta que estaba pasando, hasta que pasó.
Martinez
Agente de la DEA
Conseguí los números. Se los pasé a nuestra gente. Hasta ahí. No tengo que ver con nada más.
Todos sabíamos que los números eran peligrosos. Si solo empollaba un número, ¿qué iba a hacer con ellos en Dallas? Intervenir un teléfono no es tan fácil como dice la gente. Debo tener una causa probable.
Para mí, solo conseguí los números y los pasé. Es mi trabajo.
No puedo hablar por la agencia, solo sé lo que yo hice. Hice todo lo que pude.
Lo intenté. Así es como lo sentí. Hice lo mejor que pude aquel día. Tuve la oportunidad de conseguir la información y entregarla. La conseguí. No puedo entrar por mi cuenta a México e intentar encargarme del asunto personalmente.
Russ Baer
Portavoz de la DEA
Escuche a este tipo. Tiene familia que es de México. Habló sobre problemas de salud. Habló al respecto casi desgarrándose a veces, porque está muy involucrado emocionalmente en esto. Es alguien que empezó viendo el glamur de ‘Miami Vice,’ que dedicó su vida al servicio público para trabajar en la DEA y básicamente desmanteló el cartel de los Zetas. Esa historia personal … , mejor, imposible. Me da escalofríos.
Con respecto a lo que pasó en México y las repercusiones de la filtración, la postura oficial de la DEA es la siguiente: es por completo culpa de Omar y Miguel Treviño. Estaban matando gente antes de que aquello pasara y mataron gente después de que se entregaron los números. La DEA hizo el trabajo de ir por ellos e intentar enfocar y dedicar nuestros recursos en sacarlos del negocio. Al final tuvimos éxito en este sentido.
Nuestros corazones están con las familias. Son las víctimas, desafortunadamente, de la violencia perpetrada por los hermanos Treviño y los Zetas. Pero esta no es una historia en la que la DEA tenga las manos manchadas de sangre.
Residentes de Allende, sus caras pintadas para parecer calaveras, participan en las celebraciones del Día de los Muertos. La tradición, en la cual las familias honran a sus parientes muertos, no es tan común en el norte de México como lo es en otros lugares del país. Hace un par de años, las autoridades en Allende empezaron a organizar eventos públicos para marcar el día. Ahora, docenas de personas convergen en los cementerios para limpiar y decorar las tumbas de sus parientes y desearles lo mejor en la vida después de la muerte.
Las entrevistas que conforman esta historia han sido resumidas y editadas.
Ginger Thompson es una reportera senior en ProPublica. Thompson ha ganado el premio Pulitzer y fue previamente una corresponsal nacional e internacional del The New York Times.
Alejandra Xanic, una reportera freelance en Ciudad de México, contribuyó investigación y reportería a esta historia.
