Q: Congress must act on FY 21 appropriations. What are the possible ways for Congress to address this? A: Congress must decide if they will do substantive work on the 12 appropriations bills with the goal of passing full-year funding bills before October 1. One alternative would be to fund the beginning of the fiscal year […]

WASHINGTON, D.C. – Five lawmakers introduced a bipartisan bill giving a full range of medical services to families with children who have life-limiting illnesses and who qualify for Medicaid, which currently has gaps in such coverage.

The Children’s Program of All-Inclusive Coordinated Care (ChiPACC) Act (H.R. 6560) would let states create comprehensive care programs for these children. Its authors are the Co-Chairs of the Congressional Childhood Cancer Caucus: Representatives Michael McCaul (R-TX), Jackie Speier (D-CA), G.K. Butterfield (D-NC), and Mike Kelly (R-PA), together with Representative Diana DeGette (D-CO), a senior member of the House Energy and Commerce Committee.

“Families with children facing life-limiting illnesses need all the support they can get, and they should be empowered to seek out that support,” the bill’s sponsors said in a joint statement. “We owe it to these kids and their loved ones to help ensure more compassionate care in their most trying times.”

Gaps in Medicaid coverage of hospice and palliative services have deprived many beneficiaries of the care they need because the program does not cover some of children’s unique medical needs.

Under this bill, the family of every child who qualifies for Medicaid will receive a specialized care plan covering a range of services – palliative, counseling, respite, expressive therapy and bereavement – providing them and their families greater comfort and peace of mind.

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The WHO and world leaders commit to a fund to accelerate development of vaccines, tests and treatments for COVID-19.

The likelihood of an effective vaccine being developed and scaled up in less than 12 months is unrealistic, suggests GlobalData analyst.

CEO of Berkeley Lights talks about the companyâs work to identify antibodies against COVID-19 and what the long-term picture looks like.

As the coronavirus pandemic began to unfold, focus on the pharmaceutical and biotech sectors was on the most immediate and apparent concerns – the impact on the supply chain for drugs that are currently in the market and on the … Continue reading →

In response to written questions submitted last month regarding the potential for delays, FDA had stated that “CDER remains fully capable to continue daily activities, while responding to the public needs of the current COVID-19 outbreak.” In a subsequent blog … Continue reading →

There is going to be a time in the not too distant future, when the fuller picture of the healthcare impacts of COVID-19 come into sharper focus. When that happens, it is not likely to be pretty. In large part, … Continue reading →

Posted by Reed Beall and Amir Attaran (respectively Phd Candidate and Professor, University of Ottawa) On September 8, we posted a blogspot about our recent article published in Health Law in Canada, in which we write that Canada is providing haven for internet pharmacies located on Canadian soil that advertise and sell unapproved medicines illegally.  We called this a transnational transnational organized crime, which Canadian officials are knowingly facilitating.  We offered example [...]

Posted by Roger Bate India’s government is contemplating suing my coauthors and I for defamation for some research we published last month. In our National Bureau of Economic Research working paper on the quality of Indian medicines exported to Africa we concluded that poorer quality products were intentionally being sent to Africa because of the continents generally weak oversight of drug quality. Litigation is rarely an effective method of finding the truth, more often a process to li [...]

Posted by Roger Bate Cairo, Egypt – While its economy is still suffering from weak tourism, its new government is trying to do its best to bolster its modest regulatory structures to oversee medicines. With a population of approaching 90 million, Africa’s third most populous nation, is an important final destination for medicines, and a key transit point too. But it’s not just good medicines that Egypt needs to assess and ensure are procured, it has to prevent the bad &ndash [...]

Posted by Roger BateThe World Health Organization just posted its new report on inferior medicines (http://apps.who.int/gb/ebwha/pdf_files/WHA68/A68_33-en.pdf). It is called the member state mechanism (MSM) report on Substandard/spurious/falsely-labelled/falsified/counterfeit medical products - SSFFC for short. This report is the culmination of multiple meetings of health bureaucrats to finalize how to combat inferior medicines. Or rather that is what one hoped for when the SSFFC process began [...]

by Adriana Gallardo, ProPublica, and Ariel Goodman for ProPublica

They’ve gotten to know New York City in a way many have not, through the low-wage work of cleaning its skyscrapers, serving its restaurants and crisscrossing its streets on bicycles, through long subway rides very early in the morning and very late at night. The saying goes: You’re not a true New Yorker unless you’ve lived here for a decade. They’ve done their time and felt a deep sense of belonging in this city of immigrants.

But, in the epicenter of a pandemic, the undocumented have never felt more alone.

They are losing loved ones but do not qualify for city funding to help bury them. They are getting sick but hesitating to get tested or go to the hospital, balancing their fear of the virus with their fear of exposure to immigration authorities. They are worried about supporting their families abroad as well as those who live with them, weighing whether to keep working perilous jobs or to stay home and somehow keep food on the table.

They’ve experienced separation, but not like this — out in the world, in a skeleton crew, wearing a mask to deliver food to closed doors; in cramped apartments, sectioned off, in an attempt to quarantine. They are divided across national borders as family members die, praying novenas on Google Hangouts. Their bodies cannot be buried, intact, where they were born; they move from hospital bed, to refrigerated truck, to incinerator.

ProPublica interviewed two dozen undocumented Latino immigrants and their families about their experiences with death, illness and survival. Some spoke on the condition of anonymity, afraid of being targeted. Others allowed us to use their first names or the full names of their family members who died.

One kitchen worker from the Bronx worked in the World Trade Center two decades ago. “We used to fill the back elevators of those towers,” he said. He lost friends on Sept. 11, 2001, who were not identified or acknowledged among the dead because their names did not match those on record or their families were unable to claim the bodies.

He and others spoke to ProPublica because this time they wanted their experiences to be counted as part of the story of their city, overtaken by a virus.

Barriers to a Proper Burial

Adrian Hernandez Lopez, 38, never planned to stay in New York City. His 15 year stint here was dotted with visits to his family in Mexico, for the baptism of his son, who is now almost a teen, and to check on the house he had been sending his paychecks to build.

He and brother worked at an Italian restaurant in Times Square. “We were always together,” his brother said. They crossed the border together and, years later, commuted together from Queens to midtown Manhattan.

The last time they spoke by phone, Lopez waited in agony in a hard chair at Elmhurst Hospital, breathing in oxygen from a machine. He was transferred to Woodhull Hospital in Brooklyn. One day later, the father of two wound up in a vegetative state.

He died on April 2. His mother, who lives in Allende, a small village in the state of Puebla, wants him buried there, alongside two babies she lost just after birth.

He can’t be traditionally buried, despite the strong Mexican custom. More than 400 Mexican migrants are known to have died of COVID-19 in the New York area, but for health reasons, Mexico will only accept their bodies if they are cremated.

In place of seeing the body one last time, Lopez’s brother was sent photos by the funeral home, which will hold the cremains while the family figures out how to get them to Mexico.

The Mexican Consulate pledged financial aid to the families of nationals who died of COVID-19 complications, but it has been slow to materialize. According to Lopez’s brother, they’ve been asked to follow guidelines to receive a reimbursement. The Consulate General’s office in New York said it was not authorized by the Mexican government to give interviews at the time of our request for comment.

The city of New York provides burial assistance, but it requires a Social Security number for both the deceased and the person requesting funds. City officials say they are limited by federal and state law in the help they can offer. “We are exploring every possible option to ensure that all New Yorkers, regardless of immigration status, are able to bury their loved ones in the way they feel is most fitting,” city spokesperson Avery Cohen said.

Two members of the City Council have called for an emergency fund to provide assistance to all low-income families, including the undocumented.

“One of the most devastating calls I’m regularly getting is from people who can’t afford to bury their loved ones and aren’t eligible for any assistance,” Council Member Francisco Moya said in a release. “That’s simply not acceptable.”

Lopez’s family is one of several raising money for the transport and burial of their loved one who died in the United States.

As he tries to figure out how to send Lopez home, his brother sits in the small apartment they shared in Queens, with his wife and 6-year-old daughter, listening to the sirens that have become a constant reminder of their loss. He and his wife have been out of work for a month. They don’t know how they will pay the rent.

Deterred From Seeking Care

More than a dozen undocumented people told ProPublica that when they got sick, they stayed home, deterred from seeking care by the worry that they would not get it if they tried. They faced the same obstacles as everyone else in New York, where hospitals were crowded and unsafe, and feared additional ones involving their immigration status.

Fani lives in East Harlem. Over the last 18 years, she’s worked at a laundromat and a factory, a restaurant and as a babysitter. When she and her husband got sick they called 311. She said the voice on the other end confirmed their COVID-19 symptoms and told them to stay home unless they couldn’t breathe.

“They said there were no beds, no respirators. We healed each other as best we could with soups, teas and Tylenol,” she said.

Sonia, who became ill with COVID-19 symptoms almost three weeks ago, was afraid to go to the hospital. “I knew several people who went into the hospital with symptoms and they never came back,” she said. “That was my fear and why I decided to not go in. I preferred to isolate myself at home, with a lot of home remedies and hot teas.”

Multiple people said they knew hospitals had limited resources and worried they would be placed last in line for care because they were undocumented. “They’re going to let us die,” one man told his brother. A woman named Yogi in the Bronx said, “It might not be that they don’t want to treat us, maybe there weren’t enough supplies.”

Stories rippled through the Latino community about those who had difficulty getting care and those who could not be saved. According to a recent poll of voters in New York City, more than half of Latinos there said they know someone who died, the highest percentage of any group asked.

They hear stories about people like Juan Leonardo Torres, a 65-year-old retired doorman who knew someone on every corner of Corona, Queens. Unlike the others, Torres, from the Dominican Republic, was a citizen. Even so, he grew discouraged when he tried to get care.

Within one week at the end of March, Torres had gone from feeling slightly ill to experiencing difficulty breathing and fevers that his wife Mindy tried to manage using herbs and other “remedios caseros,” or home remedies. She and her five sons who lived with them finally persuaded him to go to Long Island Jewish Medical Center Forest Hills, just a five-minute drive from the house.

When Torres arrived, he told his family there were not enough seats in the crowded emergency room. He gave his chair up to an older woman and stood for hours as staff connected and disconnected him to an oxygen tank.

Fifteen hours later, on a drizzly night, Torres appeared at the door of the family home. It was 2:30 a.m. He had made the walk alone and declared in Spanish, “For no reason do I want to go to the hospital to die like a dog.”

He spent the next three days quarantined in his son’s room, where he died.

As the family waited six hours for his body to be retrieved, his wife sat in the living room “like a statue.”

Calculating Survival

Unable to qualify for relief programs like unemployment and stimulus cash, undocumented people are faced with the difficult choice of working dangerous jobs or running out of the money they need for essentials like food and housing.

“The little we have goes to food,” said Berenice, who suffers from kidney problems and whose son struggles with asthma. She’s been home for weeks along with her husband Luis, who before the pandemic worked at a cab company.

“Yes, we need money, but there is also our health,” Berenice said. “We have family who are sick and friends who died. We are trying to survive.”

Luis has lived in New York for 18 years, working his way up from delivering pizza on a bicycle to owning a cab. He worries about exposing his wife and son. “I just want this to pass and we’ll see about starting over again,” he said.

Adan lives in the Bronx with his two teenage sons, who were born in New York City, and his wife. She cleaned homes. He worked in a restaurant in East Harlem. Neither are working and both overcame COVID-19. “The little money we had went to pay last month’s rent,” he said. “I don’t know what to do, we just want to work.”

He said his landlord always comes looking for the rent in person. He told “el señor” that he’s spending all his money on food. The man gave him flyers about unemployment, but Adan knows he won’t qualify. “Me las voy a ver duras,” he said. He’s going to see hard times. He said he has lived in the same building for 11 years and has never missed a payment. Even though he can’t be evicted now, he said, “the debt will be there.”

Adding to the pressure, for some, is that they also work to support family members in their home countries, who count on the money they send.

One delivery worker in Queens sends $400 to Mexico every two weeks to help his son, who studies biomedicine at a university in Puebla; that helps him cover what he needs for school, including rent and transportation. He sends another $300 each month to his elderly mother.

He said he remains one of only a few bicycle delivery workers at his diner who are still on the job, and he is seeing more orders than usual. He’s always worked six days a week, but this past month was so busy, he couldn’t stop to eat lunch or take breaks.

He would much rather be outside than at home, but the streets feel tense. “I feel strange not seeing anyone or saying hi anymore, but I think it’s much better this way,” he said. “I understand why people are afraid.”

Even though he doesn’t see them in the buildings he visits, customers have been conscious about leaving tips in envelopes. He feels grateful as he passes the long lines in Queens of those waiting for free food. It makes him sad to know how many need it now.

He rents a room in an apartment he shares with three other men who have all lost their jobs. One was in construction, the other two in restaurants. He takes precautions to keep them safe when he comes home, including changing his clothes before coming in. “It would be irresponsible not to,” he said.

He hopes the rules of social distancing, and his mask and gloves, will protect him. “I’m not scared,” he said. “If you are afraid all the time, you will get sick faster.”

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by Wendi C. Thomas, MLK50: Justice Through Journalism

MEMPHIS, Tenn. — On her first day at her new warehouse job, Daria Meeks assumed the business would provide face coverings. It didn’t.

She assumed her fellow workers would be spread out to account for the new coronavirus. They weren’t.

There wasn’t even soap in the bathroom.

Instead, on March 28, her first day at PFS, which packages and ships makeup and jewelry, Meeks found herself standing alongside four other new workers at a station the size of a card table as a trainer showed them how to properly tuck tissue paper into gift boxes.

The following day, Meeks, 29, was just two hours into her shift when she heard that a worker had thrown up.

“They said her blood pressure had went up and she was just nauseated, but when we turned around, everybody who was permanent that worked for PFS had on gloves and masks,” Meeks said.

Temporary workers like her weren’t offered either.

Since then, workers have been told twice that coworkers have tested positive for the coronavirus. The first time was April 10 at a warehouse just across the state line in Southaven, Mississippi. The next was April 16 at the warehouse in southeast Memphis where Meeks worked, several temporary and permanent workers told MLK50: Justice Through Journalism and ProPublica.

In interviews, the workers complained of a crowded environment where they shared devices and weren’t provided personal protective equipment. The company has about 500 employees at its four Memphis-area locations, according to the Memphis Business Journal.

In right-to-work states such as Tennessee and Mississippi, where union membership is low, manual laborers have long said they are vulnerable, and workers’ rights advocates say the global pandemic has underscored just how few protections they have.

A spokesman for Tennessee’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration confirmed that the department received an anonymous complaint about PFS in April.

“A few of (sic) people have tested positive for Covid-19 and the company has not taken precaution to prevent employees from contracting the coronavirus,” the complainant wrote. “As of today (04/13/2020) no one have (sic) come to clean or sanitize the building.”

In response, the spokesman said TOSHA sent the company a letter “informing them of measures they may take to help prevent the spread of COVID-19.”

PFS did not answer specific questions about the number of workers infected at its facilities or about specific precautions it takes. Instead the company released a short statement that said PFS “is committed to the safety and well-being of its employees.” It also said it performs temperature checks at the door and supplies workers with masks, gloves and face shields.

But workers said none of these measures were in effect as late as the middle of April, when Shelby County, Tennessee, and DeSoto County, Mississippi, each home to two PFS facilities, were reporting more than 1,600 coronavirus infections and 30 deaths. (As of Friday, there are more than 2,750 infections and 50 deaths in the two counties.) A current employee said the company now provides gloves and masks, but they’re optional, as are the temperature checks.

When Meeks started at PFS, cases in the county were still at a trickle. But she didn’t stick around long.

On her third day at work, workers were split into two groups for lunch, but the break room was still full. “You could barely pull out a chair, that’s how crowded it was,” she said. “Everybody was shoulder to shoulder.”

Meeks said she asked the security guard at the front desk if she could eat her lunch in the empty lobby but was told no.

“I said, this is just not going to work,” said Meeks, who was paid $9 an hour. “You got different people coughing, sneezing, allergies — you never know what’s going on with a person.”

She left during her break and didn’t come back.

Economy Dominated by Low-Wage Industry, Jobs

In cities across the country, workers at Amazon facilities and other warehouses have been infected with COVID-19, as have workers at meatpacking plants nationwide.

What makes Memphis different is the outsized share of the workforce in the logistics industry, which includes warehouses and distribution centers.

The Greater Memphis Chamber of Commerce boasts on its website that the logistics industry employs 1 in 6 workers in the Memphis metro area, a higher share than anywhere else in the country.

The high concentration of these low-wage jobs is a testament to the city’s decades-old campaign to brand itself as “America’s Distribution Center.” Memphis is home to FedEx’s headquarters and its world distribution hub, which is undergoing a $1.5 billion expansion, as well as to Nike’s largest global distribution center, a sprawling 2.8 million-square-foot facility.

According to 2019 data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, more than 58,000 workers in the Memphis metro area fill and stock orders, package materials and move materials by hand.

In Memphis, workers at distribution centers for FedEx, Nike and Kroger have tested positive for the coronavirus. The Shelby County Health Department received 64 complaints about businesses between April 1 and April 29, but could not say how many were about warehouses.

Interim guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention calls for employers to notify workers of positive cases. But it is voluntary. The federal OSHA has no such requirement, and neither does Tennessee’s OSHA.

Although Congress passed the Families First Coronavirus Response Act, which provides two weeks paid sick leave for coronavirus-affected or infected workers, it doesn’t apply to many warehouse and temporary employees, said Laura Padin, senior staff attorney at the Washington-based National Employment Law Project, which advocates for better public policy for workers, particularly low-wage workers.

“The big issue is that it exempts so many employers, especially employers with over 500 employees,” Padin said. “And the vast majority of temp workers and many warehouse workers work for employers with more than 500 employees.”

The coronavirus has disproportionately affected people of color, the very group that makes up the bulk of the warehouse and temporary workforce.

“Black workers make up 12% of the workforce but 26% of temp workers, and Latino workers make up 16% of the workforce but 25% of temp workers,” said Padin, citing Bureau of Labor Statistics data released in 2018.

Add to that the yawning racial wealth gap and low-wage workers like Meeks are in an untenable situation, Padin said.

“They either stay home and they risk their financial security,” Padin said, “or they go to work and risk their lives.”

“You Can Always Go Back”

With 1.45 million square feet of warehouse space among its four area locations, PFS is the ninth-largest third-party distribution operation in the metro area, according to the Memphis Business Journal’s 2020 Book of Lists. PFS doesn’t sell products under its own name but rather fulfills orders for better-known companies.

Pandora, which is perhaps best known for its charm bracelets, is one of PFS’s clients. “Each item shipped for PANDORA is wrapped in customized, branded, and sometimes seasonal packing materials, making every purchase a gift,” PFS’s website says.

Meeks’ favorite part of her job was taking each customer’s personal message, tucking it into a tiny envelope and then into the gift package.

“When we were sending out these Pandora bracelets and these Chanel gifts, I sat there and read all my cards,” said Meeks, who like all of the workers interviewed for this story, is black. “They were so cute.”

One Pandora customer sent a note to “beloved mother,” Meeks said, and another seemed to be from someone in a long-distance relationship.

“He was like: Even though I’m miles and miles away, I always think about you,” Meeks said. He wrote that he hoped the jewelry would “glitter in your eyes, or something like that.”

The day Meeks quit PFS, she said she called Prestigious Placement, the temporary agency that sent her there, asking for another job.

The temporary agency representative “was like, ‘Well, you can always go back to PFS until we get something else,’ and I was like, ‘No.’”

“She said, ‘Well, we haven’t had anyone to get sick,’” Meeks recalled.

Meeks said she tried to explain that regardless of whether some workers had tested positive, the company wasn’t taking enough steps, in her opinion, to keep current workers safe.

The representative said she’d ask the agency’s on-site manager about Meeks’ concerns, but Meeks said that there was no on-site manager present on her second or third day.

Prestigious Placement did not respond to multiple requests for comment for this story.

A local labor leader said Meeks’ experience illustrates the tough situation for temporary workers at warehouses.

“They tend not to have benefits, sick time and insurance and all the things that allow us to keep our whole community safe during a pandemic,” said Jeffrey Lichtenstein, executive secretary of the Memphis Labor Council, a federation of around 40 union locals.

Unlike companies such as Nike and FedEx, which have reputations to protect, the general public doesn’t know who PFS is or what it does, he said. “They have no brand vulnerability,” he said.

With little leverage to exert on businesses, these workers are up against a regional business model that mires them in dead-end, low-wage jobs, Lichtenstein said.

The city’s power brokers, he said, “have a couple of main tenets of their economic philosophy. One, logistics is really, really important, and two, cheap labor is very, very important.”

“Nothing Essential About It”

Memphis Mayor Jim Strickland issued a “Safer At Home” executive order on March 23, mirroring those put in place elsewhere. But the order specifically exempted warehouses and distribution centers from COVID-19 restrictions.

PFS gave workers a letter that cited Strickland’s order and the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s guidance that “transportation and logistics are deemed a critical infrastructure that must be maintained during the COVID-19 crisis,” according to a copy reviewed by MLK50.

If they were stopped by authorities on the way to work, employees were told, this letter would ease their passage.

Some workers questioned whether the distribution center should be open at all.

“I don’t see nothing essential about it,” said one employee who asked to remain anonymous for fear she’d be fired for talking to a journalist. “It don’t got nothing to do with nurses or health.”

When a worker tested positive at a PFS distribution center in southeast Memphis, the employee, who worked at a Southaven, Mississippi, location about eight miles away, worried that the virus could spread if workers were shuffled between sites.

A manager assured her that workers would stay put, the employee said. But on April 16, a supervisor told workers that two Memphis workers, who had been brought in to the employee’s Southaven facility, had tested positive for the coronavirus.

“I said, ‘Well, since y’all got everybody in here messed up, can’t you call and get everyone in there a COVID-19 test?’” she remembered. “They said if you don’t feel safe, you can go home.”

She can’t risk taking the virus home to a relative, who has chronic illnesses, and she can’t afford not to work. “I’m concerned for my health,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”

Padin, who works with workers’ rights centers across the country, said she’s not aware of much being done by advocates to narrow the list of businesses considered essential. “I do think some of these essential worker orders are quite broad,” she said. “Our sense is that it’s a little arbitrary and just seems to be a result of lobbying.”

She pointed to the success of meat processing plants, which were declared “critical infrastructure” by President Donald Trump despite coronavirus outbreaks that sickened thousands and killed dozens.

Days before Trump’s declaration, meatpacking giant Tyson ran a full-page ad in The New York Times saying “The food supply chain is breaking.”

In Memphis, an amended executive order, signed by the mayor April 21, clarified which distribution centers and warehouses could remain in operation, including ones that handle medical supplies, food and hygiene products.

The order would seem to exclude facilities such as PFS. “Products and services for and in industries that are not otherwise identified in this provision constitute non-essential goods and services,” reads the order, which is set to expire at midnight Tuesday. On Monday, Memphis will move into the first phase of its “Back to Business” plan, which means nonessential businesses can operate with face masks, social distancing in the workplace, and symptom checks.

“No Social Distancing”

Because the turnover in warehouses like PFS is high, the need for a steady flow of labor is paramount. And temp agencies are a major source of employees.

One Memphis mother saw a job posting on Facebook for PFS. A family member’s workplace had closed because of the coronavirus, so the woman rushed to find work to make up for the lost household income. She was hired in late March by Paramount Staffing and sent to a warehouse in Southaven, Mississippi. She wanted to remain anonymous for fear of job retaliation.

From the moment workers entered the building, she said, they were close together. A single-file line funneled workers past several time clocks, one for PFS’s permanent workers and one for each staffing agency with temporary workers there.

“Some people have masks on, some don’t,” said the worker, who earned $9 an hour. Workers weren’t provided any personal protective equipment.

She opted to be a packer, a mostly stationary job, but she had to use a shared tape dispenser to seal boxes and her co-workers were within arm’s reach.

Her other job option was as a picker, but they’re in motion most of the shift, selecting products for individual orders from totes and using a shared scan gun. Pickers send the completed orders to packers.

“It’s basically no social distancing at that warehouse,” she said. “They’re gonna have to work on that.”

About two hours before her shift ended April 10, a manager huddled workers in her area together for an announcement.

“He said, ‘Well, we’re just letting y’all know that we have an employee here who tested positive and we are asking everyone here to leave the building immediately and we will clock y’all out,’” the worker recalled.

The manager instructed them not to touch anything as they left, “just go straight out the door and we will let y’all know when to return,” she recalled.

The warehouse was closed for the next day and reopened the following day.

“It makes me nervous because my health is important to me, but at the same time, it’s like that’s the only thing I can do right now,” she said.

She’s grateful for the job but insists she won’t be there long. “I’m going to try to get in a couple more checks and then I’m going to quit.”

She left about a week ago, but hasn’t found another job yet.

Paramount Staffing, which sent the worker to PFS, relies on the client to provide personal protective equipment to workers, said company president Matthew Schubert.

“My understanding is that they’ve been taking temperatures as employees walk in,” Schubert said, plus performing more frequent cleanings and coaching the workers on social distancing, but he acknowledged he didn’t know when any of those measures began.

“What we want to make sure is that they’re doing everything in their power to follow the CDC guidelines,” said Schubert, who estimates Paramount has 75 to 80 workers at PFS’s area warehouses.

“We’re limited as to what we can and cannot do, because it’s not our facility.”

Both Lichtenstein and Padin say it’s the worksite employer’s responsibility to provide personal protective equipment.

A Perfect Combination: Higher Pay and Less Risk

Just days after Meeks quit PFS, she turned to a different agency and was sent to a Memphis warehouse that labels and ships cleaning products.

Her first day was April 17, and she was impressed by the precautions the employer takes.

Before workers enter the building, Meeks said, their temperatures are taken in a white tent outside. If they don’t have a fever, they get a wristband that is a different color each day.

The company provides masks, gloves and goggles, she said, and there are even kickstands on the bathroom doors, so they can be opened by foot.

Working the third shift means fewer people, Meeks said. “We’re not working close to each other.”

Meeks said she wouldn’t put a price on her health, but at her new job, the risks are lower and the pay higher — up from $9 to $11.50 an hour.

Wendi C. Thomas is the editor of MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Email her at wendicthomas@mlk50.com and follow her on Twitter at @wendi_c_thomas.

Do you work at a warehouse or distribution center in the Memphis area? MLK50 and ProPublica want to hear from you.

• Call or text us: (901) 633-3638
• Email us: memphis@propublica.org

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by Lucas Waldron and Nadia Sussman

Many people across the country experienced COVID-19 symptoms but could not get a test to confirm if they actually had the virus. Now some are looking to a different kind of coronavirus test for answers.

Antibody tests are meant to recognize a past infection. Many of these have hit the market in recent weeks and are being offered at local clinics. Officials have touted the tests as crucial for reopening the economy and developing public health strategies to contain the virus.

But there are still questions about how accurate they are. And even with a very good test, it's possible to test positive for antibodies even when you don't actually have them. Watch our new video to learn why.

by Nina Martin and Bernice Yeung

When Alfredo Pabatao told his family that he had helped move a suspected coronavirus patient through the hospital where he’d worked as an orderly for nearly 20 years, he didn’t make a big deal out of it. “My parents are the type of parents who don’t like to make us worry,” his youngest daughter, Sheryl, recalled. But Sheryl was concerned that her father’s vulnerabilities weren’t being given more consideration as he toiled on the pandemic’s front lines in hard-hit northern New Jersey. “Why would they let a 68-year-old man with an underlying heart condition … transport a suspected COVID patient when there’s younger transporters in the hospital who could do it?”

Sheryl’s mother, Susana, was an assistant nurse in a long-term care facility where she often pulled double shifts, saving money for her annual trips back to the Philippines. At 64, she wasn’t much younger than the elderly patients she helped bathe and feed, and she had diabetes, which increased her risk of severe complications if she got sick. The nursing home wasn’t providing adequate personal protection equipment, Susana reported, so Sheryl brought home a stash of surgical masks for her mother to wear on the job. That didn’t go over well with Susana’s managers, Sheryl said: “They gave her a warning, saying she shouldn’t be wearing that. … She was really mad.”

Alfredo fell ill first, his symptoms flaring on March 17. Susana soon developed a fever. The couple had grown up on the same street in Manila and shared a romance that reminded their daughter of a telenovela; after 44 years of marriage and five children, they were all but inseparable. “Where mom goes, my dad goes. Where my dad goes, my mom goes. That’s the way they are,” Sheryl said. The day Alfredo was admitted to the ICU, his heart failing, Susana checked into the same hospital. They died four days apart.

Filipino American medical workers have suffered some of the most staggering losses in the coronavirus pandemic. In the New York-New Jersey region alone, ProPublica learned of at least 30 deaths of Filipino health care workers since the end of March and many more deaths in those peoples’ extended families. The virus has struck hardest where a huge concentration of the community lives and works. They are at “the epicenter of the epicenter,” said Bernadette Ellorin, a community organizer.

Some of the largest Filipino enclaves on the East Coast are in the New York City borough of Queens and northern New Jersey — the very places now being ravaged by COVID-19.

Filipinos are on the front lines there and across the country, four times more likely to be nurses than any other ethnic group in the U.S., experts say. In the New York-New Jersey region, nearly a quarter of adults with Filipino ancestry work in hospitals or other medical fields, a ProPublica analysis of 2017 U.S. census data found. The statistic bears repeating: Of every man and woman in the Filipino community there, one in four works in the health care industry.

“So many people can rattle off five, 10 relations that are working in the medical field,” said filmmaker Marissa Aroy, whose most recent documentary is about Filipino nurses. Her parents were registered nurses in California, and various relatives are in health care professions, including a cousin who works in a rehab center in the Bronx and recently recovered from COVID-19. “Think about all of those family members who are going to be affected,” Aroy said. “We’re talking about huge family structures here.”

The scale of the trauma and the way it is unfolding are “similar to times of war,” said Kevin Nadal, a professor of psychology at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and The Graduate Center of the City University of New York who has written extensively about Filipino American psychology and culture.

The majority of the reported deaths have involved nurses, including Susan Sisgundo and Ernesto “Audie” DeLeon, who worked at Bellevue Hospital in New York City, and Marlino Cagas, who spent 40 years as a pharmacy tech at Harlem Hospital before embarking on a nursing career at the age of 60. A handful, including Jessie Ariel Ferreras, a family practitioner in Bergen County, were doctors. Others worked in support roles, like Louis Torres, 47, the director of food services at a nursing home in Woodside, Queens, and his 73-year-old mother, Lolita, or Lely, a clerk at a nearby hospital. They lived together and fell sick around the same time, both developing pneumonia. Lolita died on April 7, her son, the following day.

Don Ryan Batayola, a 40-year-old occupational therapist, was from a big, tight-knit family and lived in Springfield Township, New Jersey. He is believed to have caught the virus from a patient and was rushed to the hospital on March 31. By April 4, he had improved enough to FaceTime with his wife, also an occupational therapist who was sick and self-isolating at home, their children sheltering with relatives. Then, an hour later, he went into cardiac arrest.

One of the most wrenching aspects of the epidemic is the sense of disconnection and helplessness in a community that stakes its economic well-being on providing care and comfort and cherishes its closeness. So many members of Batayola’s extended family are health care workers, “we could almost open our own hospital,” said his oldest sister Aimee Canton, an oncology nurse in Northern California. But to protect each other, they’ve had to remain apart, with no idea when they’ll be able to come together again. “It’s so sad when you’re a nurse,” Canton said, “and you can’t even help your own family.”

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Almost all the deaths of Filipino American health care workers that ProPublica found involve people, like the Batayolas, who immigrated during the 1970s to 2000s, when critical shortages created opportunities for medical personnel with the right training.

But the story of Filipino nurses in the U.S. goes back much further, to the end of the Spanish-American War in 1898, when the Philippines became a U.S. territory, said Catherine Ceniza Choy, a professor of ethnic studies at the University of California, Berkeley, and author of “Empire of Care: Nursing and Migration in Filipino American History.” One legacy of the colonial era is a network of hundreds of Americanized nursing schools that eventually produced tens of thousands of caregivers a year, making the country “the leading exporter of nurses in the world,” Choy said.

Nursing offered an escape route from economic and political instability and a path to the middle class for those who had few other options. It also appealed to deeply held cultural values: “kapwa,” Tagalog for “a feeling of interconnectedness to all people, putting others before yourself and taking care of the community,” Nadal said, and “utang ng loob,” the idea that people owe a debt to each other and to those who came before.

Most nurses trained in the Philippines who sought work abroad hoped to end up in the U.S. (They also migrated in large numbers to the Middle East and the U.K.) American immigration policies ebbed and flowed depending on labor shortages and political expediency. In the first third of the 20th century, the numbers of Filipino nurses were small; most workers from the islands were sent to the fields of California and the plantations of Hawaii. Then, in the wake of the Great Depression, Filipino immigrants were capped at just 50 per year, rising to 100 after World War II.

After the war, U.S. nursing shortages grew acute. Even as the passage of Medicare and Medicaid made health care more accessible to the elderly and poor, the rise of the feminist movement, which opened up professional opportunities for American women, made caregiver work less appealing, Choy said. The Immigration Act of 1965 swept aside the long-standing system of country-based quotas, instead giving preference to immigrants with professional degrees. Tens of thousands of Filipino nurses answered the call.

Caregivers on the Front Lines

The scale of losses among Filipino Americans from COVID-19 is only beginning to sink in. Clockwise from top left: Don Ryan Batayola, an occupational therapist; Alfredo Pabatao, a hospital orderly; Susan Sisgundo, a neonatal ICU nurse; Ernesto “Audie” DeLeon, a hospital nurse; Susana Pabatao, a long-term care nurse; Daisy Doronila, a correctional facility nurse.

Many ended up at inner-city and rural hospitals that had the greatest difficulty recruiting staff, often working the least desirable jobs and shifts, including, in the 1980s and ’90s, on the front lines of the AIDS epidemic. It was part of a historical pattern, said Nadal, of “immigrants doing a lot of the dirty work that people don’t want to do... being painted as heroes, when in reality they are only put in these positions because their lives are viewed as disposable.”

Yet it was a template for economic security that many of their American-born children and grandchildren embraced. “It’s like any kind of family dynamic,” Aroy said. “You see your parents do the job. And so then you know that that’s accessible to you. As a second- generation kid, I always knew that was a path for me if I wanted it.”

Today, people of Filipino ancestry comprise about 1% of the U.S. population but more than 7% of the hospital and health care workforce in the United States — nearly 500,000 workers, according to census data. They find themselves fighting not just a potentially lethal illness, but the scapegoating stoked by President Donald Trump and supporters who have taken to calling COVID-19 the “Chinese virus.” Since late March, civil rights organizations have received nearly 1,500 reports of anti-Asian hate incidents, mostly from California and New York, including against Filipino Americans.

“This anti-Asian racism that’s happening right now,” Aroy said, “what it makes me want to do is scream out: ‘How dare you treat us like the carriers? We are your caregivers.’”

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A host of factors, from medical to cultural, have put large numbers of Filipinos in harm’s way and made them vulnerable to the types of severe complications that often turn deadly. They begin with the specific type of health care work they do.

A survey by the Philippine Nurses Association of America published in 2018 found that a large proportion of respondents were concentrated in bedside and critical care — “the opposite of social distancing,” said executive director Leo-Felix Jurado, who teaches nursing at William Paterson University in Wayne, New Jersey. Many of the organization’s members have contracted the virus, he said, including the current president, New Jersey-based registered nurse Madelyn Yu; she is recovering, but her husband died.

For Daisy Doronila, employed at the Hudson County Correctional Facility in northern New Jersey for more than two decades, the profession was almost a religious calling. “My mom had a very, very humble beginning,” said her only child, Denise Rendor. “She really wanted to take care of people that no one wanted to take care of.”

Doronila saw her responsibilities to her colleagues no less seriously. The single mother and devout Catholic “was always the most reliable person at the job,” Rendor said. “If there was a snowstorm, people called out, nope, not her: ‘I’ll be there.’” As a kid, Rendor sometimes resented the missed volleyball games and dance recitals. Looking back now, “I don’t think I would have the life that I had had my mom not worked so hard.”

It’s not clear how Doronila contracted the virus, though the Hudson County jail has had at least four deaths. Once she fell ill in mid-March, she was turned away for testing by clinics and doctors on three occasions because her symptoms didn’t meet the criteria at the time, Rendor said. On March 21, Doronila started feeling breathless and drove herself to urgent care, which sent her by ambulance to the hospital. She died on April 5 at the age of 60.

If she hadn’t gotten sick, Rendor is sure she would have been volunteering for extra shifts. “That’s just who my mother was. She was just always willing to help.”

That selflessness is common among Filipino immigrants, said Zenei Cortez, a registered nurse in the San Francisco Bay Area who is the president of the California Nurses Association/National Nurses United. “They have such a profound willingness to work that they would forget their own well-being,” she said. “They would think of their loved ones in the Philippines — if they don’t work, then they can’t send money back home.”

In 2019, Filipinos abroad sent $35 billion back to the Philippines, making it the fourth-largest recipient of overseas remittances in the world; many are also helping to support networks of relatives in the U.S. “That’s the economic factor that is on the minds of a lot of Filipino nurses,” Cortez said. “If we miss work, there will be no income.”

It’s a worry that keeps many Filipinos doing sometimes-grueling labor well into their 70s. Doronila’s colleague at the Hudson County jail, nurse Edwin Montanano, was 73 when he died in early April. Jesus Villaluz, a much-beloved patient transporter at Holy Name Medical Center in Teaneck, one of the worst-hit hospitals in northern New Jersey, was 75. “They cannot in their conscience walk away from patients who need them,” said Maria Castaneda, a registered nurse and the secretary-treasurer of 1199SEIU United Healthcare Workers East, who immigrated from the Philippines in 1984. “At the same time, they are there in solidarity with other co-workers. If they are not there, it adds to the burden of those who are working.”

COVID-19 risks are magnified in people who are older or suffer underlying chronic conditions. Filipinos have very high rates of Type II diabetes and cardiovascular disease, both of which render the virus more dangerous. “They’re doing amazing things and helping others to survive,” Nadal said. “But they’re putting themselves at risk because they have immuno-compromised traits that make them susceptible to severe sickness and death.”

And in many situations, they’ve been forced to do that work without proper PPE and other safeguards, said Ellorin, the Queens-based community organizer and executive director of the advocacy group Mission to End Modern-Day Slavery. They are “being infected and not being protected, and then their families, or whoever they live with, are getting infected.”

Sheryl Pabatao thinks of the many people she knows who are working in hospitals and other medical settings and feel unable to speak out. “Even though they don’t want to do things, they still do it because they don’t want to lose their jobs.”

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When they first applied to immigrate to the U.S. in the 1980s, Alfredo Pabatao was in the car business; Susana was a former nursing student turned housewife and mother of two. By the time their petition was approved about 14 years later, their two eldest children were too old to qualify to come to the U.S. with their parents, so the Pabataos were forced to leave them behind, bringing only their youngest two daughters and son. “To this day, that was one of the hardest things — being separated from everyone,” Sheryl said.

They arrived in the U.S. a few weeks after 9/11. One of Alfredo’s sisters, a registered nurse, helped him get a job transporting patients at her hospital, now known as Hackensack Meridian Health Palisades Medical Center, in North Bergen, New Jersey. “My father grew up with wealth, and when he came here, he had to be modest and humble,” Sheryl said. Susana earned her assistant nursing certification while working as a grocery store cashier, then went to work at what is now called Bergen New Bridge Medical Center in Paramus, the largest hospital and licensed nursing home in the state. Taking care of elderly people helped ease the sadness and guilt at what she had left behind. “She was not able to take care of her own mother,” Sheryl said. “So when she does her job here, she cares for them like her own.”

America proved to be both generous and hard. The couple prospered enough to buy a house, then lost it in the Great Recession. They managed to rebuild their lives and gained their U.S. citizenship, the kids choosing careers in the pharmaceutical side of health care. After 18 years in the same job, Alfredo was waiting for Susana to retire so he could, too.

Then came the pandemic.

Sheryl had been following the news reports from China since early February and was concerned enough about her family to procure a small supply of masks before vendors ran out; “I’d put my parents in a bubble if I can,” she said. Her father was more easygoing: “He has survived so many things in his life. His attitude is: ‘If I get it, I get it. I’ll be OK with it.’”

Sheryl doesn’t know how the responsibility fell to him to transport a patient suspected of having COVID-19 during the second week in March. “But knowing my dad, he agrees to anything. He has that work ethic: ‘This is my job. If I can do it, l do it.’ Knowing him, if one of the other [orderlies] didn’t want to transfer the patient, they asked him and he said yes.”

When Susana found out her husband had been exposed to the virus that way, she was not happy, Sheryl said. Susana was having her own issues at the nursing home. In mid-March, she received an email from her bosses that warned in boldface, “Facemasks are to be used only by staff who have an authorized or clinical reason to use them. Do not wear non-hospital issued facemasks.” It was a policy Susana complained was being made by people who weren’t doing bedside care and didn’t understand the real risks. She was also told the masks would scare patients. She pretended to obey the directive when her managers were around, Sheryl said, “but my mom was stubborn, so when they left, she put [her mask] back on.”

Bergen New Bridge called Susana a “valued” employee who is “greatly missed.” The hospital denied that it has experienced any PPE shortages, but it noted that “guidance from federal and state health officials regarding the use of PPE has been evolving.” Early on, “it was recommended that masks were to be worn only by those individuals who were sick or those who were caring for COVID-19 patients.” Once the virus began spreading within the community, “we quickly moved to universal masking of all employees,” the hospital said. “Like all healthcare facilities, our Medical Center has stressed the importance of using hospital-issued PPE, as guided by the CDC.”

As of April 29, New Bridge’s long-term care facility had recorded 120 confirmed COVID-19 cases and 26 deaths. Hackensack Meridian Health didn’t respond to ProPublica’s requests for comment about Alfredo’s case.

It wasn’t just Alfredo and Susana who fell ill. Sheryl and her brother, both living at home, caught the virus, too. The weekend before Alfredo’s symptoms emerged, he and the rest of the family attended a gathering in honor of a relative who had died in January from cancer. Alfredo spent much of the party talking to his younger brother; later, the brother ended up with COVID-19 and on a ventilator for nearly three weeks. An aunt of Sheryl’s who is a housekeeper in the same hospital system as Alfredo wasn’t at the gathering but fell ill anyway and was out sick for two weeks. Her symptoms weren’t as severe as those of some of the others; she’s already back at work.

The spread of the virus has been unrelenting for Sheryl. When she returned to her own job as a pharmacy tech this past week, a month after her parents died, she learned that someone who worked at her company — who was also Filipino — had died during her absence. “You have no idea about the extent of this,” she said, “until it hits you.”

Sophie Chou contributed reporting.

Correction, May 5, 2020: This story originally misspelled the first name of the president of the California Nurses Association/National Nurses United. She is Zenei Cortez, not Zeine.

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by Alice Wilder, WNYC

Presidential lawyer and former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani has largely fallen out of the public eye since his starring role in President Donald Trump’s impeachment. But Giuliani hasn’t gone silent.

Instead, he’s in his home, doing a call-in radio show and a podcast — “Common Sense” — during which he has repeatedly gone on bigoted rants about China and its government.

“They have no morals,” he said on his April 28 radio show. “They’re amoral in the sense that human life means something in Western civilization, it means a lot. Human life doesn’t mean the same thing to them.”

Giuliani has also speculated that the spread of the coronavirus may be a plot by the Chinese government.

For example, Giuliani has raised the possibility that China purposely released the virus from a biological lab in Wuhan. “We have to say accidentally,” Giuliani said in a recent radio broadcast. “But I don’t think as responsible investigators we can rule out that it wasn’t done deliberately.”

Experts say there’s no public evidence the virus came from the lab. Amid a reported White House push, U.S. intelligence agencies have said they are investigating the origins of the virus.

Giuliani is also fixated on the idea that the Chinese government sent sick people overseas. In an April 27 episode of his podcast, he said that China allowed “over a million people from Wuhan travel to us, to the United States, to England to France to Italy to Germany.” He added, “I hope the people there have the same reaction we have to the value of human life and the loss of human life.”

“When they found out about this terrible virus that escaped, assuming they didn’t do it on purpose,” Giuliani said a day later on his radio show, “they were going to make sure the West suffered as much if not more than they did and jumped on top of an opportunity, it’s not a big assumption to make. And there isn’t a contrary explanation.”

The New York Times found that thousands, not millions, of people flew internationally out of Wuhan.

Asked about his comments, Giuliani did not respond.

The comments by Giuliani have come as discrimination against Asian Americans has spiked. And they reinforce the White House’s emerging push to blame China for the pandemic.

Giuliani has said he’s spoken to the president a number of times about the coronavirus. Two days after Giuliani said he was sure the virus came from the Wuhan lab, Trump said he has evidence of the same. (The president declined to give the evidence, saying it’s secret.)

Giuliani appears to have found a receptive wider audience too. An advertising executive at 77 WABC, which airs Giuliani’s radio show, said “feedback has been amazing” and online listening has “skyrocketed.”

The station’s parent company, Red Apple Media, did not respond to a request for comment.

In an April 23 radio show, Giuliani interviewed Gordon Chang, a conservative pundit who frequently predicts the collapse of the Chinese government. Chang said if China released the virus accidentally — for which, again, there’s no evidence — it then decided to create a global pandemic. “I think what Xi Jinping did was he decided he was going to spread the virus so that he would level the playing field so that China would not be in such a hole,” Chang said, referring to China’s president.

“Wow,” Giuliani responded. “So he saw an opportunity, if that theory is correct, and it wasn’t a bioweapon to start with, he saw an opportunity that was sort of accidentally presented to him, and then he took advantage of it. It was opportunistic.”

Chang acknowledged, “We can’t know what was in Xi Jinping’s mind for sure.” But then he went on, “It looks more like they were deliberate and malicious and that means Mr. Mayor ... this is a crime against all of humanity.”

Giuliani ended the interview by inviting Chang to be a guest on his other show, the podcast.

Giuliani has also said he’d use his access to help guests on his show move ahead with exploratory treatments. Talking with one pharmaceutical executive on his show in late March, Giuliani told his guest, “I’ll use whatever my yelling and screaming can do to do it faster, to help you.”

As the Times reported, the executive’s company received initial trial approval from the Food and Drug Administration soon after. (The FDA has said the application was subject to “internal scientific review.” And Giuliani has said he has no business connection to the company.)

“I don’t lobby the government,” Giuliani emailed in response to a request for comment. “I do hope, however, that they and others are successful.”

Giuliani appears to have strong feelings about the government’s process for approving drugs.

In an April 23 broadcast, Mark, a pharmacist from New Jersey, called in to report on his “informal study” of the patients who have used a drug cocktail that includes hydroxychloroquine — the anti-malaria drug that Trump long has touted.

Giuliani was excited when Mark reported that none of his patients had been hospitalized: “Why doesn’t this count with all these geniuses in Washington? The double blind study and the triple blind study and this study and that study, we don’t have time for that, we’ve got to go to people like Mark in New Jersey!”

In fact, the FDA has warned against widespread use of the drug, noting that it can cause heart problems.

The discussions with his listeners, though, often come back to China.

One caller to Giuliani’s radio show, identifying himself as “George from Bay Ridge,” went on a rant against Chinese people, likening them to serial killers with “no conscience” who are attempting to take over businesses all over the world.

Giuliani responded, “George, I’ve been getting complaints about this for a long time.” He added: “It almost reminds me of the Mafia. You know, they say, if you do business with America it’s one thing. If you do business with China you don’t realize, all of a sudden you start owing them too much and they believe they own you.”

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by Yeganeh Torbati

Democratic members of Congress are urging President Donald Trump to authorize FEMA to reimburse funeral expenses for victims of the coronavirus pandemic, citing ProPublica’s reporting about the administration’s policies.

“Just as with all previous disasters, we should not expect the families of those that died — or the hardest hit states — to pay for burials,” said the statement issued Friday from Rep. Bennie Thompson, chairman of the House Homeland Security Committee, and Rep. Peter DeFazio, chairman of the House Transportation and Infrastructure Committee. “President Trump needs to step up and approve this assistance so FEMA can pay for the funerals of our fellow Americans so they can be buried in dignity. It is the least he can do.”

ProPublica reported last week that Trump has yet to free up a pool of disaster funding specifically intended to help families cover burial costs, despite requests from approximately 30 states and territories. In lieu of federal help, grieving families are turning to religious institutions and online fundraisers to bury the dead.

Trump has sharply limited the kinds of assistance that FEMA can provide in responding to the coronavirus pandemic. In an April 28 memorandum, he authorized FEMA to provide crisis counseling services but said that authority “shall not be construed to encompass any authority to approve other forms of assistance.”

In a statement last week, a FEMA spokesperson said the approval of assistance programs “is made at the discretion of the President.” A spokeswoman for the White House’s Office of Management and Budget last week referred questions to FEMA, and she and two White House spokesmen did not respond to a request for comment on Monday.

The administration’s failure so far to pay for funeral costs does not appear to be because of a lack of funds. Congress gave FEMA’s disaster relief fund an extra boost of $45 billion in the Coronavirus Aid, Relief and Economic Security Act in March.

On Sunday, NJ Advance Media reported that as of April 25, FEMA had committed less than $6 billion in disaster relief for the coronavirus pandemic, and it has $80.5 billion in available disaster relief funds. The information was attributed to a FEMA spokesperson. FEMA did not respond to a request to confirm the figures.

Calls for FEMA aid are likely to spike in the coming months, as hurricane season approaches and wildfire activity hits an anticipated peak.

The amount FEMA reimburses for funeral expenses can vary, but a September 2019 report from the Government Accountability Office found that FEMA paid about $2.6 million in response to 976 applications for funeral costs of victims of three 2017 hurricanes, or an average of about $2,700 per approved application. If FEMA provided that amount for every one of the nearly 68,000 people in America reported to have died in the pandemic thus far, it would cost the government about $183 million.

Do you have access to information about the U.S. government response to the coronavirus that should be public? Email yeganeh.torbati@propublica.org. Here’s how to send tips and documents to ProPublica securely.

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by ProPublica

The Pulitzer Board announced Monday that two series published by ProPublica were awarded Pulitzer Prizes. “Lawless,” a ProPublica Local Reporting Network project by the Anchorage Daily News that revealed how indigenous people in Alaska are denied public safety services, was awarded the prize for public service. “Disaster in the Pacific,” an investigation on the staggering leadership failures that led to deadly accidents in the Navy and Marines, won a national reporting prize. The two designations are ProPublica’s 6th Pulitzer win in 12 years and the first Pulitzer awarded to a Local Reporting Network partner.

Led by Daily News reporter Kyle Hopkins, “Lawless” was the first comprehensive investigation to lay bare Alaska’s failing, two-tiered justice system in which Native villages are denied access to first responders. In much of rural Alaska, villages can only be reached by plane, and calling 911 to report an emergency often means waiting hours or days for help to arrive.

The series evolved from a string of stories that Hopkins reported in 2018 for the Daily News, recounting horrific incidents of sexual assault in Alaska — which has the nation’s highest rate of sexual violence — and policing failures that have allowed offenders to continue the abuse with impunity. To fully investigate issues of lawlessness and sexual assault in the most remote communities in the U.S., the Daily News applied to participate in ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network. The program partners with newsrooms across the country, paying the salary and a stipend for benefits for local reporters who spend a year tackling big investigative stories that are crucial to their communities. Participating reporters work with a ProPublica senior editor and receive support, including from ProPublica’s data, research and engagement teams.

The collaboration’s first story, based on more than 750 public records requests and interviews, found that one in three rural Alaska communities has no local law enforcement of any kind. These indigenous communities are also among the country’s most vulnerable, with the highest rates of sexual assault, suicide and domestic violence. The series’ second major installment found that dozens of Alaska communities, desperate for police of any kind, hired officers convicted of felonies, domestic violence, assault and other offenses that would make them ineligible to work in law enforcement or even as security guards anywhere else in the country.

Next, Hopkins revealed how the state’s 40-year-old Village Public Safety Officer Program, designed to recruit villagers to work as life-saving first responders, has failed by every measure. Alaska had quietly denied funding for basic recruitment and equipment costs for these unarmed village officers while publicly claiming to prioritize public safety spending. “Lawless” also exposed how the Alaska State Troopers agency, created to protect Alaska Native villages, instead patrols mostly white suburbs surrounding cities on the road system like Wasilla. The series ended with a list of six practical solutions to Alaska’s law enforcement crisis, based on interviews with experts, village leaders, the Alaska congressional delegation and sexual assault survivors.

The Daily News and ProPublica faced a number of challenges in reporting the series. The first: No one knew which remote Alaska villages had police officers of any kind. So they built the first-ever statewide policing database by drawing on payroll, arrest and hiring records from communities spread across the state. They also contacted every village city government, sovereign tribal administrator and Alaska Native corporation in the state — more than 600 organizations.

The vastness of the state and the fact that 80% of communities aren’t on the road system posed another challenge. Journalists flew hundreds of miles, sleeping on the floors of schoolhouse libraries and riding in sleds and on snowmobiles. To aid the reporting, they also held a community meeting in Kotzebue, Alaska, where a 10-year-old girl had been raped and murdered in 2018, providing residents, advocates, tribal leaders and law enforcement their first chance for a public discussion on sexual violence. Throughout the year the reporters spoke to more than 300 people across the state.

Following publication of the first major story, U.S. Attorney General William Barr visited the state and declared the lack of law enforcement in rural Alaska to be a federal emergency. The declaration led the Department of Justice to promise more than $52 million in federal funding for public safety in Alaska villages. The U.S. Attorney’s Office in Anchorage announced the hiring of additional rural prosecutors, while Gov. Mike Dunleavy said the state will post 15 additional state troopers in rural Alaska. In addition, the Alaska Police Standards Council has proposed changing state regulations that govern the hiring and screening of village police officers, and Alaska legislators proposed legislation that would increase pay for VPSOs and overhaul funding of the program.

The Daily News’ Loren Holmes, Bill Roth, Marc Lester, David Hulen, Anne Raup, Vicky Ho, Alex Demarban, Jeff Parrott, Michelle Theriault Boots, Tess Williams, Tegan Hanlon, Zaz Hollander, Annie Zak, Shady Grove Oliver and Kevin Powell, as well as ProPublica’s Charles Ornstein, Adriana Gallardo, Alex Mierjeski, Beena Raghavendran, Nadia Sussman, Lylla Younes, Agnel Philip, Setareh Baig and David Sleight also contributed to the series.

“The ProPublica Local Reporting Network was started to give local newsrooms across America the resources and support they need to execute investigative journalism that digs deep and holds power to account,” Ornstein, a ProPublica deputy managing editor, said. “This powerful collaboration with the Anchorage Daily News investigation does exactly that, going far beyond reporting on isolated incidents to provide meticulous research and context on how the justice system has failed Alaska’s most remote and vulnerable communities. Most importantly, it has been a force for real change.”

In their “Disaster in the Pacific” series, ProPublica reporters T. Christian Miller, Megan Rose and Robert Faturechi centered on three deadly accidents in the Navy and Marines in 2017 and 2018. They exposed America’s vaunted 7th Fleet as being in crisis with broken ships and planes, poor training for and multiple warnings ignored by its commanders. The costs: 17 dead sailors in crashes involving Navy warships, and six Marines killed in a training accident.

The back-to-back accidents in 2017 and 2018 gained initial attention from Congress and the national media, but they had been told an incomplete, misleading and dangerous story of half-truths and cover-ups. ProPublica’s series provided the first full accounting of culpability, tracing responsibility to the highest uniformed and civilian ranks of the Navy. The reporting team spent 18 months on the investigation, obtaining more than 13,000 pages of confidential Navy records and interviewing hundreds of officials up and down the chain-of-command.

The first article in the series, “Fight the Ship,” reconstructed a 2017 crash involving the USS Fitzgerald, one of the deadliest accidents in the history of the Navy. The story showed that the accident was entirely preventable, and that the Navy’s senior leadership had endangered the warship by sending a shorthanded and undertrained crew to sea with outdated and poorly maintained equipment. To show readers what happened, ProPublica hired designer Xaquín G.V. Working with investigations producer Lucas Waldron, Xaquín used geodata on the ships’ locations, mapped the path of each vessel and created a graphic that simulated the crash, down to the moment the Fitzgerald was sent spinning out of control, rotating 360 degrees. The team also collected radar images, ship blueprints, hand-drawn images made by surviving sailors and video taken inside the ship, which allowed them to portray the disaster from the perspective of the sailors onboard.

A second story, “Years of Warnings, Then Death and Disaster,” detailed how the fatal crash of the USS Fitzgerald, and of the USS McCain weeks later, were the result of a congressional gutting of the Navy and the Navy’s prioritization of building new ships. Top Navy officials gave urgent, repeated warnings to Navy Secretary Ray Mabus about the deadly risks facing its fleet, including being short of sailors, sailors poorly trained and worked to exhaustion, warships physically coming apart, and ships routinely failing tests to see if they were prepared to handle warfighting duties. They were ignored, told to be quiet or even ordered to resign.

Another story captured the Marine Corps multiple failures that were responsible for the deaths of six men in a nighttime training exercise 15,000 feet above the Pacific — an accident that senior leaders had been warned was possible, even likely. ProPublica created an animated short documentary, using a combination of an on-camera interview, 3D animation, 2D illustration and atmospheric footage to bring the excruciating hours of a needless tragedy to light. Through extensive interviews with eyewitnesses, the team reconstructed the moments leading up to the crash, the crash itself and the botched search and rescue effort.

The series also illuminated how the Navy’s reckless management of the 7th Fleet was measured not only in fatalities, but also in the hurt and shame of the rank-and-file sailors whom the Navy blamed and prosecuted for the accidents. The Navy’s prosecution of Navy Cmdr. Bryce Benson for what were clearly systemic shortcomings, traceable all the way to the Pentagon, left many of its own furious and demoralized.

Weeks after the first story’s publication, the House Armed Services Committee convened a panel to challenge senior Navy leaders over their claims that they had been fully truthful about its failings and its efforts at reform. The reporting forced the Navy to admit to Congress that its claims about its rate of progress on reform were misleading. In light of ProPublica’s reporting on the improper role that the Navy’s top commander played in the prosecution of Benson, one of captains on the USS Fitzgerald, the Navy dropped all criminal charges. U.S. and NATO Navy commands throughout the world have ordered sailors and officers to read the ProPublica accounts as part of training and education.

Joseph Sexton, Tracy Weber, Agnes Chang, Katie Campbell, Joe Singer, Kengo Tsutsumi, Ruth Baron, David Sleight, Sisi Wei, Claire Perlman, Joshua Hunt and Nate Schweber also contributed to this series.

“The Navy actively blocked reporting at every step, with communications officers attempting to dissuade officials from conducting interviews with ProPublica and leaking positive stories to competing media outlets in an attempt to front-run our stories,” ProPublica Managing Editor Robin Fields said. “The military even threatened that we could be criminally prosecuted for publishing the material we obtained. This tour de force of investigative journalism is a testament to the unflinching tenacity of the reporters and the innovation of ProPublica’s data, graphics, research and design teams. Their essential work laid bare the avoidance of responsibility by the military’s most senior leaders.”

by Annie Waldman

Last September, over pancakes at a diner in central Massachusetts, Molly Baldwin told her husband, Jonathan, they were going to have a baby. He cried into his coffee mug, elated and a little surprised. They had only been trying for about a week, and they had yearned for a summer baby, ideally in June, which would enable their parents to spend more time with their first grandchild.

“We thought we had the best timing,” she said.

But as the novel coronavirus began to spread through the country this year, Baldwin realized in early March that it was only a matter of time before the virus hit her town, Fitchburg, and the nursing home where she’s a social worker. Her patients would be among the most vulnerable: Some had battled addiction, many had experienced homelessness and most were elderly. Flu seasons were always hard on her patients, and she dreaded the havoc a more lethal disease would wreak.

Baldwin also worried about her baby. She spent hours looking up the prenatal effects of COVID-19, and the lack of evidence-based research concerned her. She called her obstetrician, who cautioned that because of the unknowns, she should consider working from home to limit her exposure to the virus.

So Baldwin made a plan for when COVID-19 arrived at her nursing home: She would swap shifts with a colleague to work fewer hours and request to work from home, as many of her duties are paperwork or computer-based.

She would work from the comfort of her kitchen table. She would avoid catching the virus. She would keep visiting her doctor until it was time to deliver, her belly swelling with a baby girl she knew was healthy and safe.

None of it, not a single thing, would go according to plan.

Baldwin said her supervisor and the human resources representative from the facility verbally agreed in mid-March to let her work from home. (Baldwin spoke with ProPublica on the condition that her workplace not be named; ProPublica contacted her employers with questions for this story.)

Then, on April 16, one of the residents at her facility tested positive for the virus. Baldwin sought testing at a walk-in clinic, and the results came back negative. But when she called her obstetrician’s office, she got a warning: If she continued to work at the facility, potentially exposing herself to the virus, they would not allow her to enter their office for prenatal appointments unless she could prove with a test, before each visit, that she was negative for COVID-19.

She understood their caution; her job was beginning to feel at odds with her pregnancy. It was time for her work-from-home plan to go into action.

She called her employer and asked to start the accommodations she had requested the month before. But they told her that now the plan would not be feasible, she said. Other pregnant employees were continuing to work at the facilities, and she would have to as well, she said she was told.

“The services provided at a nursing home do not typically allow for remote working,” a company spokesperson told ProPublica. “However, we have made changes to accommodate our staff whenever possible, provided there is no impact on patient care.”

After finding out her request to work from home would not be granted, Baldwin panicked. “I’m not even a mom yet,” she said. “This is my first baby, and I already feel like I’m doing everything wrong.”

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Baldwin is one of dozens of pregnant workers who ProPublica has heard from who are navigating the risks of COVID-19 while in the field of health care.

“There are plenty of pregnant women across the country who are trying to figure out what to do to protect themselves, given the uncertainty,” said Emily Martin, vice president for education and workplace justice at the National Women’s Law Center. “If you feel like you can’t do your job because there aren’t certain accommodations and you feel like you’re at risk, it’s difficult to see where to go next.”

About half of the states have laws that allow pregnant women to request reasonable accommodations, including Massachusetts, Martin said.

According to the Massachusetts Pregnant Workers Fairness Act, signed into state law in July 2017, employers must grant reasonable accommodations to their pregnant employees that allow them to continue to do their job, “unless doing so would impose an ’undue hardship’ on the employer.” An employer also “cannot make an employee accept a particular accommodation if another reasonable accommodation would allow the employee to perform the essential functions of the job.”

Both the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists have stated that based on the data available, pregnant women do not face a higher risk of infection or severe morbidity related to COVID-19. That said, both the CDC and ACOG have suggested that health care facilities may want to consider reducing the exposure of pregnant health care workers to patients with confirmed or suspected COVID-19, if staffing permits.

“In the overwhelming majority of pregnancies, the person who is pregnant recovered well with mild illness,” said Dr. Neel Shah, an obstetrician and assistant professor at Harvard Medical School, echoing the current guidance. But, he cautioned, there is a lot we still don’t know about how the virus impacts bodies, let alone those that are pregnant. “We can’t say that it’s completely safe — we don’t know.”

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Baldwin and her husband went through their options.

She couldn’t quit because they needed her paycheck. They had a mortgage, student loans and a new baby on the way. She also loved her job and cared deeply for her patients, whom she wanted to continue to serve. Her employer, trying to manage understaffing, had discouraged employees from taking time off, she said. She didn’t want to take any additional sick days, because she needed to save them for her maternity leave.

They decided that she would have to return to work.

Her employer told her to wear a mask and gloves, use hand sanitizer and remain in her small, boxy office, which has three desks for four people. Though she didn’t have contact with the residents, her office mates still did.

Even though she was scared, she tried to stay optimistic. “I was grateful for what I had because I have friends that are out of work right now,” she said. But she remained perplexed about why her requests had been denied. “I was sitting in my office doing work that would have easily been done from a laptop on my kitchen table.”

The company spokesperson did not respond to a question about whether it had originally given Baldwin verbal approval to work from home. When asked why she couldn’t have done the same work remotely, he said, “Based on your questions, our HR and Risk Management are anticipating action and would prefer to not comment at all.”

The next day, the Massachusetts National Guard delivered testing kits to the nursing home, and every resident was checked for the virus. When the results came back, at least 22 residents and 20 other staff members tested positive.

“We are conducting cleanings and infection control measures multiple times per day, with extra focus on high touch areas,” the company spokesperson said. “We screen and take the temperature of anyone entering our building, and we have increased monitoring of our residents.”

Public data shows the facility has more than 30 cases among residents and staff, the maximum number that the state reports publicly.

“I thought if I just keep working, stay in my office, use hand sanitizer, wear my mask, go home and shower right away, disinfect my clothes, then I will be fine, and I can keep my baby safe, and I can shed all this guilt,” she said.

Then on April 24, two of her office mates texted to tell her they had the virus.

And that morning, she’d felt a tickle in her throat.

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“I know I’m positive,” she thought to herself, as she left work midday and drove to a CVS drugstore testing site an hour away that was offering free rapid tests for front-line and health care workers. Hundreds of cars were already lined up.

She waited alone in her Jeep Wrangler for three hours, wearing her mask as required, which muffled her nagging cough. She shifted around constantly, to keep blood from pooling in her swelling feet. At the front of the line, she received a 6-inch cotton swab, wedged it deep in her nasal cavity, and returned it to the technicians. They directed her into a side parking lot, and 30 minutes later, she got a phone call with her results.

“We’re sorry to tell you that you’re positive,” the voice on the line told her. Baldwin’s mind stalled, engulfed in a wave of anxiety, which gave way to seething frustration.

“This was so preventable,” she said. “Now here I am, 33 weeks pregnant and positive. My most important job is to keep the baby safe, and my actual job wasn’t making that happen.”

When she called her co-workers and supervisor to tell them she tested positive, she said they were “all very caring and compassionate.” They told her to stay home for at least a week, or until her symptoms subsided. The Families First Coronavirus Response Act requires most employers to provide their workers with two weeks of paid leave if the employee is quarantined or experiencing COVID-19 symptoms. Baldwin said she would have to exhaust her sick days first; she’d been saving them for her maternity leave. Her husband, who works as a correctional officer at a county jail, was allowed to take 14 days of paid leave to tend to his wife, without using his own sick days.

She could no longer go to her normal obstetrician for in-person appointments, and instead, she would have to rely on telemedicine. Her doctor connected her with an obstetrician specializing in COVID-19 cases, with whom she planned to meet this week.

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Last Saturday, Baldwin’s mother had planned to throw her daughter a baby shower. She had invited 50 of their closest friends to celebrate at a new restaurant and had ordered dozens of pink favors from Etsy.

Because of the stay-at-home order, her shower morphed into a drive-by celebration, where her friends and family passed by her house, honking their horns and holding celebratory signs, balloons and streamers. They dropped gifts in front of her house, including first aid kits and a handsewn pink mask for an infant.

Her symptoms have, so far, been relatively mild, similar to a normal flu: headaches, a stuffy nose, a sore throat and muscle pains. She’s spent most of the past week resting in bed and taking baths to soothe her body aches. While taking care of Baldwin, her husband has also contracted the virus and is experiencing severe body aches as well.

In addition to her disappointment that the hypnobirthing and breastfeeding classes she had signed up for are canceled, her time in quarantine is now filled with anxious questions about how the disease may impact her baby.

Will the stress of this experience damage her baby neurologically? Will her baby be born early? Will she have to deliver by cesarean section to relieve pressure on her body and lungs, like so many stories she had read? Will she have to be secluded from her baby for days or weeks after birth? And what if her own symptoms worsen?

“This is our first baby, and it was so planned and wanted,” she said. “But had we known this awful thing would happen, would we have tried when we did?”

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by Peter Elkind, ProPublica, and Meg Cramer, WNYC, with Doris Burke, ProPublica

On May 12, after a six-week delay caused by the pandemic, the U.S. Supreme Court will hear arguments in the epic battle by congressional committees and New York prosecutors to pry loose eight years of President Donald Trump’s tax returns.

Much about the case is without precedent. Oral arguments will be publicly broadcast on live audio. The nine justices and opposing lawyers will debate the issues remotely, from their offices and homes. And the central question is extraordinary: Is the president of the United States immune from congressional — and even criminal — investigation?

Next week’s arguments concern whether Trump’s accounting firm, Mazars USA, must hand over his tax returns and other records to a House committee and the Manhattan district attorney, which have separately subpoenaed them. (There will also be arguments on congressional subpoenas to two of Trump’s banks.) Trump, who promised while running for president to make his tax returns public, has sued to block the documents’ release. The questions apply beyond this case. Trump has repeatedly resisted congressional scrutiny, most recently by vowing to ignore oversight requirements included in the trillion-dollar pandemic-bailout legislation. “I’ll be the oversight,” he declared.

The president’s accounting firm has found itself at the center of this high-stakes fight. The American arm of a global firm, Mazars has portrayed itself as an innocent bystander in the war between Trump and his pursuers, dragged into the conflict merely for possessing the trove of subpoenaed records. It’s the firm’s first burst into the media glare apart from an unfortunate moment of tabloid coverage in 2016 after one of its New York partners stabbed his wife to death in the shower of their suburban home. (He pleaded guilty to manslaughter.) Mazars has said it will abide by whatever decision the court makes in the Trump matter.

But Trump’s accountants are far from bystanders in the matters under scrutiny — or in the rise of Trump. Over a span of decades, they have played two critical, but discordant, roles for Trump. One is common for an accounting firm: to help him pay the smallest amount of taxes possible. The second is not common at all: to help him appear to the world to be rich beyond imagining. That sometimes requires creating precisely the opposite impression of what’s in his tax filings.

Time and again, from press interviews in the 1980s to the launch of his 2016 campaign, Trump has trotted out evermore outsized claims of his wealth, frequently brandishing papers prepared by members of his accounting team, who have sometimes been called on to appear in person when they were presented, offering a sort of mute testimony in support of the findings. The accountants’ written disclaimers — that the calculations rely on Trump’s own numbers, rendering them essentially meaningless — are rarely mentioned.

Trump’s accountants have been crucial enablers in his remarkable rise. And like their marquee client, they have a surprisingly colorful and tangled story of their own. It’s dramatically at odds with the image Trump has presented of his accountants as “one of the most highly respected” big firms, solemnly confirming his numbers after months of careful scrutiny. For starters, it’s only technically true to say Trump’s accounting work is handled by a large firm.

In fact, Trump entrusts his taxes and planning to a tiny, secretive team of CPAs who have operated at various times from humble quarters in Queens and two Long Island office parks. That team, which has had two leaders with back-to-back multidecade terms, has been working for the Trumps since Fred Trump began using the firm back in the 1950s. It was eventually subsumed into Mazars USA, the American arm of a large international firm, through a series of mergers over decades.

Listen to the Episode

One theme has been consistent: partners and sometimes the firm itself have faced accusations of fraud, misconduct and malpractice on multiple occasions, an investigation by ProPublica and WNYC has found.

That pattern dates to the 30 years during which the Trump accounting team was led by Jack Mitnick, whose pugnaciousness was exceeded only by his aversion to his clients paying the IRS. He was the architect of the notorious schemes, revealed by The New York Times, to dodge more than $500 million in gift and inheritance taxes and funnel hundreds of millions from Fred Trump to his children, helping keep Donald Trump afloat through four of his business bankruptcies. Mitnick was known as an accounting star — at least until 1996, when his partners threw him out of the firm amid accusations of fraud and malpractice.

Years of turmoil followed. The firm operated without malpractice insurance for a period and was dogged by feuds — with current and former partners suing each other — and financial problems.

And it ran afoul of regulators. In January of 2004 — one week after “The Apprentice” premiered on NBC — the Securities and Exchange Commission formally censured the firm for willfully aiding and abetting misconduct. The SEC suspended one partner from practicing before it for four years for what the agency called “highly unreasonable” and “improper professional conduct.”

Since Trump’s accountants merged their practice into Mazars in 2010, they have been present for Trump’s scandals, too. Mazars accountants prepared the tax returns for the Donald J. Trump Foundation, forced to shut down and ordered to pay more than $2 million in damages after a New York attorney general’s investigation exposed a history of illegal self-dealing. And the Manhattan DA’s office, which is investigating whether the Trump Organization falsified its business records to cover up hush-money payments to adult film actress Stormy Daniels, subpoenaed not only Trump’s tax returns but also various internal records and assessments prepared by Mazars.

Today, the CEO of Mazars USA is the same partner who was suspended by the SEC for four years for improper conduct. (Mazars defends its CEO, saying he meets all ethical and professional standards, and asserts that the firm has encountered no more sanctions or litigation than other comparable firms.)

The choice of a formerly suspended accountant as CEO surprised former SEC Chief Accountant Lynn Turner, now a senior adviser at the Hemming Morse financial consulting firm. “In my opinion,” said Turner, “that speaks loudly with the respect to the confidence one would have in that firm — better yet, the total lack of confidence one would have in that firm. And it would certainly make me wonder about the culture of that firm and whether or not that firm acts with integrity.”

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Whether by design, or perhaps just coincidence, Trump’s accountants have occasionally displayed the sort of audacity often associated with their client. Consider this example involving New York City taxes back in the 1980s. Mitnick claimed that Trump was exempt from paying tax on profit he made by flipping a Trump Tower condo. He had acquired the unit at cost, $634,648, ostensibly for providing “consulting services” to his development partnership, then sold it 19 days later for $3 million.

At an administrative court hearing, Mitnick defended deductions that he’d claimed offset any profits from Trump’s consulting business, even as he failed to provide any documentation or explanation for those expenses, according to the 15-page court opinion in the case. He went so far as to deny that he’d prepared the federal tax return for Trump that also claimed the deductions, even though his signature was on the document.

The accountant evidently protested vociferously in the New York case, leading the administrative law judge to scoff, “The problem at issue is not one of double taxation, but of no taxation.” The total amount at stake was relatively modest — $87,693.57, including penalties and interest — but Mitnick, on Trump’s behalf, contested it for more than a decade before a city appeals panel finally put an end to the case, ordering Trump to pay up.

Decades after he left the Trump account, Mitnick briefly surfaced in the press in 2016, after the Times reported that Trump’s 1995 tax return reported a $916 million loss. Mitnick, then 80, dismissed Trump’s boast that he was a tax genius for using the loss to avoid paying taxes for as much as a decade. “I did all the tax preparation,” the dour accountant told TV interviewers. “He never saw the product until it was presented to him for signature.” Mitnick added, with apparent pride: “Those returns were entirely created by us.”

When ProPublica first sought to speak with Mitnick late last year, he asked, “What’s in it for me?” and said he’d discuss Trump only if he were paid for his time. (In a longer second call, where he also asked to be paid, he eventually offered brief responses to some questions.)

An accountant and attorney, Mitnick first arrived at Spahr Lacher & Berk, the tiny firm later merged into Mazars, in 1963, at age 27. Mitnick soon took charge of the Trumps’ accounts. He would oversee them for the next 30 years.

In its early years, Spahr was located in Jamaica, Queens, and employed just a handful of CPAs. The firm had been working with the Trump family, whose five-bedroom Tudor home was in tonier Jamaica Estates, at least since 1951, when Fred Trump cemented the relationship by hiring a Spahr partner as controller for his growing real estate business.

Fred Trump was far and away Spahr’s biggest client. His cash-spewing rental apartment empire in Brooklyn and Queens required lots of accounting work, and Fred paid his bills in full and on time. By 1979, Spahr Lacher had moved into a nondescript suburban office park in Lake Success, Long Island, just beyond the Queens border and the reach of New York City taxes.

By then Donald Trump had begun pursuing his big, risky and expensive ambitions: glitzy towers and hotels in Manhattan; three over-the-top Atlantic City casinos; his own airline; a massive yacht and a professional football team. In 1987, as his father had done, Donald hired his company’s controller from the ranks of his accounting firm.

Trump’s accountants played a critical role in Donald’s survival through the 1980s and early ʼ90s, a period when many of his projects crashed and burned, requiring massive infusions of cash from his father. With Mitnick in charge, Spahr hatched the strategies that minimized both gift and estate taxes on the transfer of Fred’s wealth to Donald and his siblings.

A 2018 Times investigation found that Fred Trump had funneled at least $413 million in current dollars to his son and that the Trumps’ tax-avoidance tactics, all told, had slashed their tax bill by about $500 million. The article described some of the tax moves as “outright fraud.” (Trump’s lawyer called that conclusion “100% false” and said the relevant authorities “fully approved all of the tax filings.”)

A lynchpin of the strategy was the 1992 creation of a corporation, All County Building Supply & Maintenance, through which Fred Trump’s children charged their father’s business grossly inflated prices, then split the markup, allowing them to avoid gift taxes even as they reeled in millions from their father.

The strategy was viewed as a major success inside the accounting firm. “I wish I could take credit for it,” Mitchell Zachary, a former Spahr partner who worked on the Trumps’ accounts for more than a decade, told ProPublica and WNYC. “It was brilliant, but it wasn’t mine,” Zachary said. “It was a team of accountants, partners at Spahr.” Zachary defended the firm’s practices for the Trumps as “aggressive” but “within the letter of the law.”

Mitnick was viewed as “a tax god” inside the firm, said Zachary, who worked at Spahr Lacher from 1986 to 2002 and teamed with Mitnick on the Trumps’ accounts. The family “wouldn’t make a move” without checking with Mitnick, he said. Mitnick even made a cameo appearance (albeit with his name misspelled) in the first chapter of Trump’s 1987 book, “The Art of the Deal.”

Mitnick pressed for every advantage on Trump’s behalf, ever urging Zachary to be bolder. A fundamental Mitnick principle: “If you can’t find me where the law says you can’t do it, you can do it.” Said Zachary: “He always took these very aggressive positions and would never back down. Never. He always felt, ‘I’ll just keep appealing.’”

Mitnick’s team developed virtually all the Trumps’ tax-avoidance maneuvers, Zachary said. “I mean, it was all for their benefit in so many ways,” he said. “It’s not like they were going to question it.”

Donald Trump’s accounting work was much more complex than that of his father. His business operated scores of separate entities, each requiring its own tax filings. Just preparing his annual personal return took three to four months.

Diving into Trump’s personal finances, as Zachary did in the late 1980s, proved bewildering. Warned that his work for Trump was sure to face an audit, Zachary said he took special care to trace every asset, expense and receipt. When he finally finished, he was mystified. Zachary couldn’t find evidence that Trump, in fact, possessed any cash beyond a recent payment in a casino deal.

“I went to Jack Mitnick, and I said, ‘Look, I must be missing something: There’s nothing here!’… I thought for sure I screwed up. I thought for sure I missed something big.”

Zachary recalled Mitnick’s reply. “He just laughed and went: ‘Well, you just figured it out!’”

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Spahr took unusual steps to safeguard the confidentiality of Donald Trump’s returns. No work papers or documents could be left on a CPA’s desk overnight; everything had to be carefully locked up.

The secrecy was imposed to hide the chasm between Trump’s public claims and reality, according to Zachary: “He bragged a lot. … More than any other individual that I’ve ever seen, he was very big at promoting that he’s this super-rich billionaire.”

Trump was a difficult client. He demanded discounts on fees and took forever to pay his bills. “Collecting from Trump was awful,” Zachary said. Eventually Spahr agreed to give Trump a 50% discount and allow him 12 months to pay. Zachary said: “Donald always made it clear: ‘You get the privilege of saying you’re Donald Trump’s accountants, so you have to pay the price.’”

Trump’s nearly $1 billion write-off for 1995 represented an aggregation of the enormous losses his business blunders had run up — and Spahr skillfully exploited them on Trump’s behalf. Trump paid no federal income tax in nine of the 11 years from 1984 through 1994, according to tax materials obtained by the Times and publicly released documents.

It is true that the Trumps’ aggressive tactics drew virtually nonstop scrutiny from tax authorities. Indeed, they spent so much time examining the Trumps’ books, Zachary said, that Spahr Lacher had a special room permanently set aside for the IRS’s Trump auditors. (Zachary also cites this scrutiny, and the relatively modest resulting adjustments, as evidence that Spahr’s tactics didn’t cross the line.)

Spahr’s focus on wealth-transfer strategies intensified in the early 1990s, after Fred Trump, a detail-minded workaholic, began suffering from poor health and dementia. One tactic was to divide legal ownership of Fred’s properties into separate family partnerships, so Fred lacked complete control. That helped justify lowball appraisals for tax purposes. “There was an appraiser out there that the IRS hated … because he was so aggressive. And that’s the guy we used,” Zachary said. That appraiser, he said, reduced the claimed values of Fred Trump’s properties by 35% to 40% — and occasionally dramatically more.

By the time Fred Trump died in 1999, Mitnick was gone from the firm. His departure followed a series of troubling lawsuits and other setbacks relating to work for non-Trump clients. In one case brought over Mitnick’s administration of a tax-shelter investment involving coal mine leases, a federal appeals court wrote in 1985: “The record amply demonstrates that he committed fraud.”

In a second case, longtime Spahr clients charged Mitnick and the firm with “a long-term coverup of Mitnick’s malpractice” on their family’s estate and audit work, accusing them of missing filing deadlines and making false statements to the IRS, which they claimed cost the family millions in taxes and penalties. They asserted that Mitnick and his team neglected them and “devoted most of their professional time to other clients, including Donald Trump and his enterprises.” After the trial judge found that Mitnick was “the primary wrongdoer,” the matter was eventually settled for about $500,000, according to Mitnick’s deposition testimony in yet another malpractice suit against both him and the firm.

Mitnick, meanwhile, had his own problems with the IRS. He had filed three federal tax court cases between 1987 and 1990 challenging IRS levies against him and his wife on their personal taxes.

He became an enigma to his Spahr partners. Mitnick often seemed oblivious to important deadlines. One partner recalls finding Mitnick, just hours before a critical tax filing was due, in the firm’s staff room with a hammer and screwdriver, fixing a broken chair.

By the mid-1990s, the litigation had left Spahr Lacher unable to obtain insurance, threatening the firm’s continued existence. Partners, including Zachary, shifted their assets into their spouses’ names. Records show the Mitnicks’ home, located 2 miles from the firm’s office, was held in his wife’s name.

In September 1996, the partners expelled Mitnick. They told clients that Mitnick, then 60, was retiring. Less than a year later, he became a tax counsel with a Long Island law firm, where he remained until 2014.

Asked about these events, Mitnick, now 84, repeatedly declined to comment, saying he couldn’t discuss “confidential communications between myself and the client.” He added, “You’re going back to the dark ages.”

Mitnick eventually fell on hard times. In 2007, after Citibank filed a foreclosure action on an unpaid $500,000 mortgage loan, Mitnick and his wife sold their $1.4 million Long Island home. Three years later the IRS slapped him with a lien for more than $155,000 in unpaid federal tax debts dating back to 2003. Mitnick and his wife relocated to a modest house in Palm Beach County, Florida.

In May 2017 Mitnick and his wife were evicted after failing to pay $11,331 in assessments and penalties to their homeowners association. Their possessions were placed out on the street. Less than two years later, in March 2019, they were ejected again, this time evicted from an apartment for unpaid rent and, according to a court filing, “physically removed from the premises.”

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At the time Mitnick left the firm, partners feared his departure might cost them the Trump business, which Zachary estimates represented about a third of the firm’s total billings. But Trump agreed to stick with Spahr.

Still, the firm’s existence was precarious. Unable to obtain malpractice coverage, Spahr’s eight partners, after being hit by another lawsuit settlement, learned they would have to dig into their own pockets to pay it.

So they happily welcomed an acquirer: M.R. Weiser & Co., a midsize Manhattan accounting firm eager to establish a big presence on Long Island. Spahr’s leaders signed off on the deal only after again seeking Trump’s personal blessing. He gave it, Zachary said, after being assured his fees wouldn’t increase.

As it turned out, Weiser had problems of its own. The firm had engaged in a disastrous buying binge aimed at transforming the firm into a regional powerhouse. The deals instead triggered what partners later described as a “crisis of finances and morale.” Just a year after swallowing Spahr, Weiser’s partners ousted the firm’s chairman, Stanley Nasberg, who then sued, demanding $5 million in damages and sending the dispute to an arbitration panel. (In an interview, Nasberg maintained he was “instrumental” in the rapid growth of the firm and recruitment of major clients. He blamed his ouster on the “greed” of his then-partners.)

The 24-page report from the arbitration panel detailed a litany of “recriminations and factual and legal disputes.” The firm had suffered such “acute cash shortages” that some senior partners had delayed depositing their year-end paychecks in 1999; partner draws had been withheld altogether in early 2000.

For years Weiser was roiled by factional conflicts, cash-flow problems and bitter litigation. “It became just a disjointed mess,” said Jeff Coopersmith, a partner who arrived in 1999 as the result of one merger and was frog-marched out six years later after the firm discovered his plans to start his own firm with two other partners (and take clients with him).

Amid all this turmoil, the Trump group remained a constant. With Mitnick’s departure, the firm handed its leadership to a CPA who seemed even more single-mindedly dedicated to the mogul: Donald Bender.

Bespectacled, bald and bookish, Bender had arrived at Spahr in 1981, shortly after earning his accounting degree at Queens College. He’s been there ever since. (Through a firm spokesman, Bender declined requests for an interview.)

Bender had a monkish devotion to his work, and to Trump, who became his sole client. Bender remained single well into middle age, when he married a woman who’d worked at Weiser. Now 62, he still runs the Trump account and lives with his family in a drab townhouse, six minutes’ drive from his office.

Bender’s dedication won Trump’s respect, said Zachary, who worked closely with Bender until leaving the firm in 2002. “He really devoted his life to Donald Trump,” Zachary said, enough to earn him an invitation to Trump’s wedding to Melania Knauss at Mar-a-Lago in 2005.

Operating from offices at one end of the accounting firm’s floor, Bender and his small Trump team kept to themselves. It had long been standard practice to maintain extraordinary security provisions for all of Trump’s electronic files, including barring anyone from viewing them without a special password.

Bender’s group had a mystique within the firm. In a 2017 essay published on a literary website, a former junior accountant at Weiser, Henry Kogan, recounted meeting Bender — whom he referred to as “the other Donald” — in the firm’s cafeteria. “After I introduced myself and the small talk subsided he said, ‘Everything you say will be repeated.’… In my two years at Weiser LLP, I learned the other Donald didn’t talk much but when he did it was worth listening to.”

Kogan described the knowledge of Trump’s financial world as “passed down from one generation to the next through a single, chosen accountant, orally.” As he put it, “You could sense the weight of this knowledge in the way [Bender] walked, the way he carried himself, carefully and with precision. Sometimes it seemed as if he were moving across a tightrope, invisible across the thickly carpeted office floor.” Bender’s “entire professional existence,” he wrote, “revolved around one client, that client’s organization, and the hundreds of entities represented inside an IRS form.”

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As Trump banked evermore on his image for breathtaking wealth, he enlisted his accountants to back his dubious claims. For example, struggling to avoid personal bankruptcy in 1994, Trump cooperated with a cover story in Vanity Fair promoting his “comeback.”

“Piece by piece, deal by deal, a beautiful story is starting to emerge about me,” Trump declared, after picking up writer Edward Klein in his stretch limo. As they were driven to a black-tie dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel honoring Trump as “Humanitarian of the Year,” Klein wrote, “he handed me a folder containing his personal financial statement, which had been prepared by the accounting firm of Spahr, Lacher & Sperber.” It showed $139,326,000 in cash and equivalents.” That figure seemed unlikely given that four of Trump’s companies had gone bankrupt during the early 1990s.

Similar documents surfaced in 2006, after Trump was stung by a book written by Tim O’Brien that ridiculed his boasts of being worth as much as $6 billion. The book, “TrumpNation: The Art of Being the Donald,” cited three confidential sources “with direct knowledge of Donald’s finances” who said the number was actually between $150 million and $250 million.

Looking to rehabilitate the image of his net worth — on Forbes’ annual list of billionaires — Trump enlisted his accountants. He summoned two Forbes reporters, according to one of them, Stephane Fitch. They arrived at his Trump Tower conference room to find a table piled with leather-bound volumes and stacks of manila folders, supposedly documenting how much Trump was worth. Also present, to help make the case: Bender and his Weiser partner Gerald Rosenblum. The two accountants sat silently as Trump and his deputies touted his wealth. Forbes ultimately pegged it at $2.9 billion — about half of what Trump claimed — but far higher than O’Brien’s assessment.

Trump sued O’Brien for defamation, and in the litigation, too, the accountants and their work played a supporting role. A 25-page document, on Weiser letterhead, titled “Accountants Compilation Report” was produced during discovery. (“I do keep one actually on my desk, hidden,” Trump testified during the case.) A two-page disclaimer explained that the report (which claimed a net worth of $3.5 billion) was based entirely on “the representation of the individual whose financial statements are presented.” In other words, all the numbers came from Trump.

Trump made clear just how unreliable that was, at one point testifying during his deposition: “My net worth fluctuates, and it goes up and down with markets and with attitudes and with feelings, even my own feelings.” Asked if he’d ever exaggerated in statements about his properties, Trump replied: “I think everyone does.”

The disclaimer on the “compilation” noted that Weiser had done nothing to confirm the unaudited numbers, which included wholesale departures from generally accepted accounting principles (GAAP). In particular, the statement acknowledged counting future income streams that were in doubt; excluding much of Trump’s debt; failing to reflect whether Trump actually owned only a portion of the assets he listed; and ignoring both repayment obligations and whatever taxes he owed.

Weiser did sometimes prepare GAAP-compliant audited financial statements for Trump, when required by some lenders and regulators. These statements revealed a lower net worth. So Trump shared the “compilation” documents with reporters instead.

O’Brien’s lawyers deposed the two Weiser partners who worked on the Trump document. Asked to explain a memo he’d written calling Trump’s valuations on properties “subjective,” Bender demurred: “I don’t have the professional expertise to discuss valuations.” Rosenblum, who said he had been preparing such statements for Trump since the early 1980s, was more direct. “In the compilation process, it is not the role of the accountant to assess the values,” he testified. “The role is to accept those values and move them forward.” He acknowledged he made no attempt to corroborate any of the figures. (A judge granted O’Brien a summary judgment, later upheld by an appeals court, in Trump’s libel suit.)

Trump continued to offer selective financial statements. If anything, the list of recipients seemed to grow, to include banks and insurance companies, according to congressional testimony last year by former Trump lawyer Michael Cohen, shortly before he went to prison. Cohen released copies of Trump’s financial statements for 2011, 2012 and 2013 and testified: “It was my experience that Mr. Trump inflated his total assets when it served his purposes, such as trying to be listed among the wealthiest people in Forbes, and deflated his assets to reduce his real estate taxes.”

By this point, Mazars had become his accountants of record (the Weiser merger occurred in 2010) and the disclaimers in the financial statements had grown to exclude anything involving the finances of Trump’s large hotels in Las Vegas and Chicago. The 2011 and 2012 statements placed Trump’s net worth at $4,261,590,000 and $4,558,680,000, respectively.

They included multiple false claims. As The Washington Post reported last year, the 2011 statement claimed Trump Tower was 68 stories tall (it’s 58); exaggerated the size of Trump’s Virginia vineyard (it’s 1,200 acres, not 2,000); inflated the number of lots approved for sale at his golf course in southern California (it was 31, not 55); and claimed a 212-acre Westchester County estate he’d bought in 1996 for $7.5 million was already “zoned for 9 luxurious homes” and thus worth $291 million. Local officials said the property was really worth about $20 million, and the project, which faced years of opposition from area residents, was never built. Trump took a tax write-off on the property instead. These false statements alone appear to have inflated Trump’s claimed wealth by hundreds of millions.

Once again, when Trump announced his campaign for the presidency in gala fashion in 2015, he waved a financial statement that he said his accountants had prepared. This time the tally was $8,737,540,000.

“To pay an auditor to say ‘we have not checked the numbers, and the numbers don’t follow any rules’ — you just don’t see that,” said George Washington University assistant accountancy professor Kyle Welch. “This is not a real financial statement. This is a promotional document.” Welch said the sweeping disclaimer protects the accountants from legal liability or industry sanctions.

He doubts a larger firm would have been willing to affix its name to such statements. “I don’t think any of the Big Four would put their name on those financial statements,” Welch said. “I don’t think they could have been paid enough to get it done.”

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Not long after it acquired Trump’s accounting firm, Weiser came under investigation by the SEC. The matter was resolved in 2004, with an agreed settlement order: Two Weiser CPAs were suspended from practicing before the commission for “highly unreasonable” and “improper professional conduct.” The SEC also censured Weiser, ordering it to disgorge $39,679 and hire an outside consultant to review its policies and compliance procedures.

According to the SEC, Weiser had failed to properly monitor its client, a financial advisory firm called Sagam Capital Management, that was already operating under a cease-and-desist order for securities fraud and thus, as Weiser knew, warranted “heightened scrutiny.” These failures, the SEC found, had “willfully aided and abetted” more misconduct. (Sagam’s CEO later went to prison for stealing millions from his customers.)

Victor Wahba, the Weiser partner in charge of the assignment, was barred from SEC practice for a minimum of four years. (He didn’t admit or deny wrongdoing.) But Wahba remained at the firm, and was promoted, just one year later, to run its New York office. In 2012, 15 months after being reinstated by the SEC, Wahba was named co-CEO of Mazars. He became chairman and CEO of Mazars USA in 2015.

Wahba declined requests for an interview, but Mazars provided a statement that read, in part: “Under Victor Wahba’s leadership, Mazars USA has become a national leader in tax, accounting and consulting. He is well recognized as a thoughtful and charitable CEO.” It noted that Wahba now “remains in good standing” with various industry and government regulators, including the SEC.

Trump’s accounting firm faced other issues. In 2009, a partner received a three-year SEC suspension for secretly negotiating for a high-level job with a client he was then auditing. The SEC called the partner’s conduct “at a minimum, reckless.” He eventually left the firm.

In separate, more recent cases, the U.S. attorney’s office in Manhattan prosecuted two other CPAs who worked at the firm for their involvement in illegal tax shelters.

Ronald Katz, a partner at Weiser for five years starting in 2004, received a nine-month prison sentence in 2017 after pleading guilty to conspiring with a New York tax attorney in what federal prosecutors described as a “corrupt multi-year tax evasion scheme.” Katz had been indicted, among other offenses, on charges of failing to pay taxes on $1.2 million in fee income while at the firm. Internal firm financial documents show that for 2004, Katz billed $6.6 million in fees, far more than any other partner in the firm. Katz declined to comment.

In August 2019, New York federal prosecutors settled a civil complaint against former Mazars senior manager Michael Schwartz. In legal filings, prosecutors said he had arranged for more than 100 taxpayers to claim “large phony tax losses,” cheating the government out of hundreds of millions of dollars in taxes. (The shelters dated back to 2002, but were already under court challenge by the government when Mazars hired Schwartz in 2008.) In 2010, a federal appeals court found that one of Schwartz’s transactions, which allowed a tech executive to shelter $60 million in stock gains with an investment of less than $1 million, was “specifically designed to create a massive tax loss devoid of economic reality.”

Despite this, Schwartz remained at the accounting firm until 2015, just weeks before the IRS assessed him for $35.4 million for promoting unregistered fraudulent tax shelters. After filing for bankruptcy, Schwartz settled the IRS claim by agreeing to pay $650,000. (“This had nothing to do with WeiserMazar,” Schwartz said. “This was all activities done way before I joined the firm. They knew about it. But they hired me for my international tax expertise.”)

In its statement, Mazars dismissed the notion that it had a troubling record. “Any suggestion that Mazars USA is an industry outlier with regard to its business practices or litigation history is false and misleading. Even a cursory review of the history of any large accounting firm or business will reveal the inevitability of litigation. Our history is no different than any other similarly situated firm.”

Mazars declined to respond to a long list of questions regarding its work for the Trumps, citing the need to protect client confidentiality. Its statement noted, “Mazars USA prides itself on providing professional accounting, audit and consulting services in accordance with all professional and ethical standards, rules, and regulations.”

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Because it handles virtually all the tax and accounting needs for Donald Trump, Mazars has inevitably found itself immersed in more recent controversies surrounding its famous client.

This extends to the Donald J. Trump Foundation, whose annual tax returns Bender has regularly prepared and signed. For 2016 and 2017, before the foundation’s dissolution, Mazars also audited its financial statements, filed with the New York attorney general’s office. Among these documents, there is no indication the firm did anything to spotlight or curtail the financial abuses that eventually forced the charity’s shutdown.

The Mazars accountants were complicit in the foundation’s illegal practices, according to Marcus Owens, an attorney and expert in nonprofit law who ran the IRS’ exempt-organizations division for a decade. “I cannot fathom how they would not know,” he said. Owens called the firm’s role in the foundation’s misconduct “extraordinary. ... I’ve been practicing charity law for 45 years, including 25 at the IRS, and I’ve never seen anything like it.” Added Owens: “This is aiding and abetting someone doing something that is in clear violation of federal tax law. It really calls into question what’s going on with every other tax return that firm prepared.”

Mazars’ role, if any, in the Stormy Daniels hush money scandal remains unclear. As ProPublica has reported, the Manhattan DA’s office is investigating whether the Trump Organization’s payments, falsely reimbursed to Michael Cohen as a “legal retainer,” represented an illegal falsification of the company’s books and records. It is not evident what Mazars, in preparing its tax filings and auditing its books, knew — or should have known — about this.

But it is clear that the investigation by Manhattan DA Cyrus Vance extends far beyond the scope of that 2016 episode. Vance’s grand jury subpoena seeks tax returns, work papers, financial statements and communications dating back to 2011. If the Supreme Court affirms two federal lower court rulings that he should get them, Vance’s investigators will be free to look for evidence of other potential crimes.

For all the anticipation about the documents being sought by both the criminal prosecutors and Congress, it is possible that the public may never see them even if the Supreme Court orders Mazars to turn over the records.

In Vance’s investigation, requirements for grand jury secrecy will prevail unless the documents lead to criminal prosecutions. It’s also not clear whether the congressional committees would make public any Trump records.

The greatest revelations also may not be contained in the tax returns themselves, which will lack detail about Trump and his businesses, but in the thousands of pages of other materials that Congress and the DA have also subpoenaed. These include the hundreds of corporate returns, also prepared by Mazars, detailing Trump’s investments, his debts, his sources of income and his partners. Equally important, the accountants’ work papers and communications with the Trump Organization could reveal unguarded internal assessments and exchanges about his finances.

The Supreme Court fight may end with a whimper. On April 27, the court hinted that it may be looking for a way to punt at least part of the three cases involving Trump’s tax records: It asked the parties to submit supplemental briefs to answer effectively whether the court should even be trying to resolve the two cases in which Congress has subpoenaed the records. (This would not affect the third case, involving the Manhattan DA). The question, as Scotusblog characterized it, is “whether courts should stay out of the fight over the subpoenas because it is fundamentally a political dispute between the branches of government. If the justices were to conclude that the doctrine applies, they could dismiss the cases without ruling on the merits of the dispute — which might be a particularly appealing outcome for some justices in the lead-up to the presidential election.”

Such a decision would clear the way for Mazars and Trump’s banks to comply with the congressional subpoenas if they chose to do so — but would provide no judicial means of enforcement, according to University of Texas law professor Stephen Vladeck, a Supreme Court expert. (Asked about such a Supreme Court outcome, a Mazars spokesman said the firm stands by its previous statement that it will “respect the legal process and fully comply with its legal obligations.”) That would provide for a much less stirring conclusion than, say, a unanimous high-court opinion declaring that the president is not above the law.

But the court could still affirm the third case, in which federal courts ordered Mazars to turn over the returns to the Manhattan DA. If Mazars then complies with that subpoena, that will leave the firm in good graces with the court — but likely facing the wrath of its client of many decades, the president of the United States.

by Charles Ornstein and Lena V. Groeger

Nursing home residents have been among those hardest hit by the new coronavirus. In some states, more than half of the recorded deaths have been long-term care residents. Some of the homes have been cited for putting residents at “immediate jeopardy” of harm or death, our analysis showed.

And many of the affected homes have been previously written up for violating federal standards. That’s true in California, New Jersey and New York.

We’re updating Nursing Home Inspect to include more information about nursing homes across the country, including past problems with infection control practices, and which ones have had cases of COVID-19 among residents or staff.

We introduced this resource in 2012 as a way to search through tens of thousands of nursing home inspection reports to find problems and trends.

You can easily compare the nursing homes in your state based on how many times they have been cited for violating infection control protocols in the past three inspection cycles (roughly three years). We’ve also added data from The Washington Post on homes with COVID-19 cases. Nursing Home Inspect also allows you to sort by the number of health deficiencies cited by regulators; the number of serious deficiencies per home (that is, deficiencies in which patients were put in immediate jeopardy of harm); the amount of fines imposed; and how often the government has suspended payments to the home for new patients, another type of penalty.

Our data is from the U.S. Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS), which has its own website called Nursing Home Compare. We’ve taken the information and organized it into an easy-to-use resource for families and residents, as well as researchers and other journalists.

Our site includes:

• State pages: Every state has its own section that allows you to compare all of the homes in a state on a variety of indicators.

• Individual nursing home pages: Every home has a section listing all of the health deficiencies identified within the past three survey cycles (roughly three years). The full text of these deficiency reports, if available, can be accessed via links from this page to CMS. Each home’s page also has ownership status — whether for-profit, government-run or nonprofit — and whether the home has been labeled by the government as a Special Focus Facility, meaning that it has many more problems than other homes. We’ve also labeled Special Focus Facility candidates, which meet the criteria to be a special focus facility but haven’t yet been designated as one. (We only include health deficiencies, not fire and safety violations, in this database.)

• State-by-state maps: The main page of the app shows how states compare in terms of the percentage of homes with at least one serious deficiency, the average fine paid by homes in the state, and the percentage of homes in each state with at least one infection-related deficiency.

• Top 20 Lists: We’ve listed the homes that have paid the most in fines in the nation and those with the highest number of serious deficiencies.

If homes violate federal standards, CMS may impose fines or suspend Medicare/Medicaid payments to the nursing home for new residents until the facility corrects the deficiency.

If problems persist or are not fixed, CMS can end its agreement with the nursing home. Additional details about CMS’ approach to enforcement can be found here.

Nursing Home Inspect continues to allow you to search through nearly 80,000 inspection reports by keywords, such as “choke” or “maggots,” to look for issues you care about. These search results can be sorted by date, city, state or severity of the deficiency.

Nursing homes are inspected on both a regular schedule and when there is a complaint. Inspectors typically work for state agencies paid by Medicare. If they find problems, known as deficiencies, they rank them on a scale of A to L, the most severe. The vast majority are either labeled D or E.

What you won’t find on these pages are self-reported quality measures for each home. Those can be found on Nursing Home Compare. We also don’t list the state sanctions imposed against homes because those are not centrally collected. For information on penalties within a given state, you should consult the state agency that regulates nursing homes. The federal government has a list of contacts available here.

When reading through inspection reports, it is a good idea to keep in mind the caveats we’ve outlined previously.

How We Combined Data Sources

To compile our app, we used different datasets: a listing of all Medicare-certified nursing homes, inspection violations and penalties, and deficiency report narratives.

We merged spreadsheets containing findings from routine inspections and those identified during complaint visits and kept only health violations, not fire safety violations.

We used each home’s unique identification code to match penalties imposed to the dates of their corresponding inspections so we could display that data together for each home. (We also noted some cases in which a penalty date did not have a corresponding inspection in the database.)

You can find the data we used on these sites:

• For a list of nursing homes: https://data.medicare.gov/Nursing-Home-Compare/Provider-Info/4pq5-n9py

• For penalties: https://data.medicare.gov/Nursing-Home-Compare/Penalties/g6vv-u9sr

• For health deficiency information: https://data.medicare.gov/Nursing-Home-Compare/Health-Deficiencies/r5ix-sfxw

• For deficiency report narratives (updated in April 2020): http://downloads.cms.gov/files/Full-Statement-of-Deficiencies-April-2020.zip

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by Robert Faturechi and Derek Willis

Sen. Richard Burr was not the only member of his family to sell off a significant portion of his stock holdings in February, ahead of the market crash spurred by coronavirus fears. On the same day Burr sold, his brother-in-law also dumped tens of thousands of dollars worth of shares. The market fell by more than 30% in the subsequent month.

Burr’s brother-in-law, Gerald Fauth, who has a post on the National Mediation Board, sold between $97,000 and $280,000 worth of shares in six companies — including several that have been hit particularly hard in the market swoon and economic downturn.

A person who picked up Fauth’s phone on Wednesday hung up when asked if Fauth and Burr had discussed the sales in advance.

In 2017, President Donald Trump appointed Fauth to the three-person board of the National Mediation Board, a federal agency that facilitates labor-management relations within the nation’s railroad and airline industries. He was previously a lobbyist and president of his own transportation economic consulting firm, G.W. Fauth & Associates.

Burr came under scrutiny after ProPublica reported that he sold off a significant percentage of his stocks shortly before the market tanked, unloading between $628,000 and $1.72 million of his holdings on Feb. 13 in 33 separate transactions. As chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee and a member of the health committee, Burr had access to the government’s most highly classified information about threats to America’s security and public health concerns.

Before his sell-off, Burr had assured the public that the federal government was well-prepared to handle the virus. In a Feb. 7 op-ed that he co-authored with another senator, he said “the United States today is better prepared than ever before to face emerging public health threats, like the coronavirus.”

That month however, according to a recording obtained by NPR, Burr had given a VIP group at an exclusive social club a much more dire preview of the economic impact of the the coronavirus, warning it could curtail business travel, cause schools to be closed and result in the military mobilizing to compensate for overwhelmed hospitals.

The timing of Burr’s stock sales drew widespread outrage, allegations of insider trading, calls for his resignation and an FBI investigation.

Burr defended his actions, saying he relied solely on public information, including CNBC reports, to inform his trades and did not rely on information he obtained as a senator.

Fauth avoided between $37,000 and $118,000 in losses by selling off when he did, considering how steeply the companies’ shares fell in recent weeks, according to an analysis by Luke Brindle-Khym, a partner and general counsel of Manhattan-based investigative firm QRI. Brindle-Khym obtained Fauth’s financial disclosure from the Office of Government Ethics and shared it with ProPublica. Government forms only require that the value of stock trades be disclosed in ranges. After the February sales, the total value of Fauth’s individual stock holdings appears to be between $680,000 and $2 million.

Alice Fisher, Burr’s attorney, told ProPublica that “Sen. Burr participated in the stock market based on public information and he did not coordinate his decision to trade on Feb. 13 with Mr. Fauth.”

She did not respond to a question about whether Burr discussed anything he learned as a senator with Fauth or any other relatives.

A review of Fauth’s financial disclosure forms since 2017 show that he is not a frequent stock trader, but that he also had a major day of sales in August 2019.

On Feb. 13, Fauth or his spouse sold between $15,001 and $50,000 of Altria, the tobacco company; between $50,001 and $100,000 of snack food maker Mondelez International; and between $1,001 and $15,000 of home furnishings retailer Williams-Sonoma. He also sold stakes in several oil companies, which have been hit particularly hard, including between $15,001 and $50,000 of Chevron; between $1,001 and $15,000 of BP and between $15,001 and $50,000 of Royal Dutch Shell.

The finances of the Burrs and Fauths have intersected before. Federal Election Commission records show that Burr’s leadership PAC, Next Century Fund, has paid $120,348 since 2002 to his sister-in-law, Mary Fauth, Gerald’s wife, who serves as treasurer. The PAC has also paid $104,850 in rent and utilities over the same period to 116 S. Royal St. Partners, in which Gerald Fauth is a partner.

Do you have access to information about stock trading by Trump administration officials or members of Congress that should be public? Email robert.faturechi@propublica.org or reach him on Signal/WhatsApp at 213-271-7217. Here’s how to send tips and documents to ProPublica securely.

Update, May 6, 2020: This story was updated with new comment from Sen. Richard Burr’s attorney.

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by Abrahm Lustgarten

The scientists who study how diseases emerge in a changing environment knew this moment was coming. Climate change is making outbreaks of disease more common and more dangerous.

Over the past few decades, the number of emerging infectious diseases that spread to people — especially coronaviruses and other respiratory illnesses believed to have come from bats and birds — has skyrocketed. A new emerging disease surfaces five times a year. One study estimates that more than 3,200 strains of coronaviruses already exist among bats, awaiting an opportunity to jump to people.

The diseases may have always been there, buried deep in wild and remote places out of reach of people. But until now, the planet’s natural defense systems were better at fighting them off.

Today, climate warming is demolishing those defense systems, driving a catastrophic loss in biodiversity that, when coupled with reckless deforestation and aggressive conversion of wildland for economic development, pushes farms and people closer to the wild and opens the gates for the spread of disease.

Aaron Bernstein, the interim director for the C-Change Center for Climate, Health and the Global Environment at Harvard University’s T.H. Chan School of Public Health, said that ignoring how climate and rapid land development were putting disease-carrying animals in a squeeze was akin to playing Russian roulette.

“Nature is trying to tell us something,” Bernstein said.

Scientists have not suggested that climate played any direct role in causing the current COVID-19 outbreak. Though the virus is believed to have originated with the horseshoe bat, part of a genus that’s been roaming the forests of the planet for 40 million years and thrives in the remote jungles of south China, even that remains uncertain.

Scientists have, however, been studying the coronaviruses of southern China for years and warning that swift climate and environmental change there — in both loss of biodiversity and encroachment by civilization — was going to help new viruses jump to people.

There are three ways climate influences emerging diseases. Roughly 60% of new pathogens come from animals — including those pressured by diversity loss — and roughly one-third of those can be directly attributed to changes in human land use, meaning deforestation, the introduction of farming, development or resource extraction in otherwise natural settings. Vector-borne diseases — those carried by insects like mosquitoes and ticks and transferred in the blood of infected people — are also on the rise as warming weather and erratic precipitation vastly expand the geographic regions vulnerable to contagion. Climate is even bringing old viruses back from the dead, thawing zombie contagions like the anthrax released from a frozen reindeer in 2016, which can come down from the arctic and haunt us from the past.

Thus the COVID-19 pandemic, even as it unfolds in the form of an urgent crisis, is offering a larger lesson. It is demonstrating in real time the enormous and undeniable power that nature has over civilization and even over its politics. That alone may make the pandemic prologue for more far-reaching and disruptive changes to come. But it also makes clear that climate policy today is indivisible from efforts to prevent new infectious outbreaks, or, as Bernstein put it, the notion that climate and health and environmental policy might not be related is “a ​dangerous delusion.”

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The warming of the climate is one of the principal drivers of the greatest — and fastest — loss of species diversity in the history of the planet, as shifting climate patterns force species to change habitats, push them into new regions or threaten their food and water supplies. What’s known as biodiversity is critical because the natural variety of plants and animals lends each species greater resiliency against threat and together offers a delicately balanced safety net for natural systems. As diversity wanes, the balance is upset, and remaining species are both more vulnerable to human influences and, according to a landmark 2010 study in the journal Nature, more likely to pass along powerful pathogens.

The casualties are amplified by civilization’s relentless push into forests and wild areas on the hunt for timber, cropland and other natural resources. Epidemiologists tracking the root of disease in South Asia have learned that even incremental and seemingly manageable injuries to local environments — say, the construction of a livestock farm adjacent to stressed natural forest — can add up to outsized consequences.

Around the world, according to the World Resources Institute, only 15% of the planet’s forests remain intact. The rest have been cut down, degraded or fragmented to the point that they disrupt the natural ecosystems that depend on them. As the forests die, and grasslands and wetlands are also destroyed, biodiversity sharply decreases further. The United Nations warns that the number of species on the planet has already dropped by 20% and that more than a million animal and plant species now face extinction.

Losing species has, in certain cases, translated directly to a rise in infectious disease.

Americans have been experiencing this phenomenon directly in recent years as migratory birds have become less diverse and the threat posed by West Nile encephalitis has spread. It turns out that the birds that host the disease happen to also be the tough ones that prevail amid a thinned population. Those survivors have supported higher infection rates in mosquitoes and more spread to people.

Similarly, a study published last month in the journal Proceedings of the Royal Society B found that as larger mammals suffer declines at the hands of hunters or loggers or shifting climate patterns, smaller species, including bats, rats and other rodents, are thriving, either because they are more resilient to the degraded environment or they are able to live better among people.

It is these small animals, the ones that manage to find food in garbage cans or build nests in the eaves of buildings, that are proving most adaptable to human interference and also happen to spread disease. Rodents alone accounted for more than 60% of all the diseases transmitted from animals to people, the researchers found.

Warmer temperatures and higher rainfall associated with climate change — coupled with the loss of predators — are bound to make the rodent problem worse, with calamitous implications. In 1999, for example, parts of Panama saw three times as much rainfall as usual. The rat population exploded, researchers found. And so did the viruses rats carry, along with the chances those viruses would jump to people. That same year, a fatal lung disease transmitted through the saliva, feces and urine of rats and mice called hantavirus pulmonary syndrome emerged in Panama for the first time, according to a report in the journal Emerging Infectious Diseases.

As much as weather changes can drive changes in species, so does altering the landscape for new farms and new cities. In fact, researchers attribute a full 30% of emerging contagion to what they call “land use change.” Nothing drives land use shifts more than conversion for farmland and feedstock — a result of the push to feed the planet’s 7.8 billion people. As the global population surges to 10 billion over the next 35 years, and the capacity to farm food is stressed further again by the warming climate, the demand for land will only get more intense. Already, more than one-third of the planet’s land surface, and three-quarters of all of its fresh water, go toward the cultivation of crops and raising of livestock. These are the places where infectious diseases spread most often.

Take, for example, the 1999 Nipah outbreak in Malaysia — the true-life subject matter adapted for the film “Contagion.” Rapid clearcutting of the forests there to make way for palm plantations drove fruit bats to the edge of the trees. (Separate research also suggests that climate changes are shifting fruit bats’ food supply.) They found places to roost, as it happens, alongside a hog farm. As the bats gorged themselves on fruit, they dropped pieces of food from the branches, along with their urine, into the pigsties, where at least one pig is believed to have eaten some. When the pig was slaughtered and brought to market, an outbreak is believed to have been spread by the man who handled the meat. More than 100 people died.

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says that fully three-quarters of all new viruses have emerged from animals. Even the 2014 Ebola outbreak in West Africa is believed to have begun when a boy dug into a tree stump that happened to be the roost of bats carrying the virus.

As Christine Johnson, the associate director of the One Health Institute, an interdisciplinary epidemiological program at the University of California, Davis, puts it, global health policymakers have a responsibility to understand how climate, habitat and land use changes lead to disease. Almost every major epidemic we know of over the past couple of decades — SARS, COVID-19, Ebola and Nipah virus — jumped to people from wildlife enduring extreme climate and habitat strain, and still, “we’re naive to them,” she said. “That puts us in a dangerous place.”

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Once new diseases are let loose in our environment, changing temperatures and precipitation are also changing how those diseases spread — and not for the better. Warming climates increase the range within which a disease can find a home, especially those transmitted by “vectors,” mosquitoes and ticks that carry a pathogen from its primary host to its new victim.

A 2008 study in the journal Nature found nearly one-third of emerging infectious diseases over the past 10 years were vector-borne, and that the jumps matched unusual changes in the climate. Especially in cases where insects like infection-bearing mosquitoes are chasing warmer temperatures, the study said, “climate change may drive the emergence of diseases.”

Ticks and mosquitoes now thrive in places they’d never ventured before. As tropical species move northward, they are bringing dangerous pathogens with them. The Zika virus or Chikungunya, a mosquito-spread virus that manifests in intense joint pain, were once unseen in the United States, but both were transmitted locally, not brought home by travelers, in southern Texas and Florida in recent years.

Soon, they’ll be spreading further northward. According to a 2019 study in the journal PLOS Neglected Tropical Diseases, by 2050, disease-carrying mosquitoes will ultimately reach 500 million more people than they do today, including some 55 million more Americans. In 2013, dengue fever — an affliction affecting nearly 400 million people a year, but normally associated with the poorest regions of Africa — was transmitted locally in New York for the first time.

“The long-term risk from dengue may be much higher than COVID,” said Scott Weaver, the director of the Institute for Human Infections and Immunity at the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston. “It’s a disease of poor countries, so it doesn’t get the attention it deserves.”

The chain of events that ultimately leads to a pandemic can be long and subtle, steered by shifts in the ecosystem. The 1999 West Nile outbreak in the U.S., for example, came after climate-driven droughts dried up streams and rivers, leaving pools of stagnant water where mosquitoes bred unhindered. It turns out the loss of water also killed off their predators — dragonflies and frogs that depend on large watering holes were gone.

Coronaviruses like COVID-19 aren’t likely to be carried by insects — they don’t leave enough infected virus cells in the blood. But one in five other viruses transmitted from animals to people are vector-borne, said U.C. Davis’ Johnson, meaning it’s only a matter of time before other exotic animal-driven pathogens are driven from the forests of the global tropics to the United States or Canada or Europe because of the warming climate. “Climate is going to shift vulnerability to that,” Johnson said, “and I think some of these regions are not prepared.”

The changing climate won’t just affect how the diseases move about the planet, it will also shape how easily we get sick. According to a 2013 study in the journal PLOS Currents Influenza, warm winters were predictors of the most severe flu seasons in the following year. The brief respite in year one, it turns out, relaxed people’s natural defenses and reduced “herd immunity,” setting conditions for the virus to rage back with a vengeance.

Even harsh swings from hot to cold, or sudden storms — exactly the kinds of climate-induced patterns we’re already seeing — make people more likely to get sick. A study in the journal Environmental Research Letters linked the brutal 2017-18 flu season — which killed 79,000 people — to erratic temperature swings and extreme weather that winter, the same period in which a spate of floods and hurricanes devastated much of the country. If the climate crisis continues on its current trajectory, the authors wrote, respiratory infections like the flu will sharply increase. The chance of a flu epidemic in America’s most populated cities will increase by as much as 50% this century, and flu-related deaths in Europe could also jump by 50%.

“We’re on a very dangerous path right now,” said the University of Texas’ Weaver. Slow action on climate has made dramatic warming and large-scale environmental changes inevitable, he said, “and I think that increases in disease are going to come along with it.”

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Twelve months before the first COVID-19 case was diagnosed, a group of epidemiologists working with a U.S. Agency for International Development project called PREDICT, or Pandemic Influenza and other Emerging Threats, was deep in the remote leafy jungle of southern China’s Yunnan province hunting for what it believed to be one of the greatest dangers to civilization: a wellspring of emerging viruses.

A decade of study there had identified a pattern of obscure illnesses affecting remote villagers who used bat guano as fertilizer and sometimes for medicine. Scientists traced dozens of unnamed, emerging viruses to caves inhabited by horseshoe bats. Any one of them might have triggered a global pandemic killing a million people. But luck — and mostly luck alone — had so far kept the viruses from leaping out of those remote communities and into the mainstream population.

The luck is likely to run out, as Yunnan is undergoing enormous change. Quaint subsistence farm plots were overtaken by hastily erected apartment towers and high-speed rail lines, as the province endured dizzying development fueled by decades of Chinese economic expansion. Cities’ footprints swelled, pushing back the forests. More people moved into rural places and the wildlife trade, common to such frontier regions, thrived. With every new person and every felled tree, the bats’ habitat shrank, putting the viruses they carried on a collision course with humanity. By late 2018, epidemiologists there were bracing for what they call “spillover,” or the failure to keep a virus locally contained as it jumped from the bats and villages of Yunnan into the wider world.

In late 2018, the Trump administration, as part of a sweeping effort to bring U.S. programs in China to a halt, abruptly shut down the research — and its efforts to intercept the spread of a new novel coronavirus along with it. “We got a cease and desist,” said Dennis Carroll, who founded the PREDICT program and has been instrumental in global work to address the risks from emerging viruses. By late 2019, USAID had cut the program’s global funding.

USAID did not respond to a detailed list of questions from ProPublica.

The loss is immense. The researchers believed they were on the cusp of a breakthrough, racing to sequence the genes of the coronaviruses they’d extracted from the horseshoe bat and to begin work on vaccines. They’d campaigned for years for policymakers to fully consider what they’d learned about how land development and climate changes were driving the spread of disease, and they thought their research could literally provide governments a map to the hot spots most likely to spawn the next pandemic. They also hoped the genetic material they’d collected could lead to a vaccine not just for one lethal variation of COVID, but perhaps — like a missile defense shield for the biosphere — to address a whole family of viruses at once. (In fact, the gene work they were able to complete was used to test the efficacy of remdesivir, an experimental drug that early clinical trial data shows can help COVID-19 patients.)

Carroll said knowledge of the virus genomes had the potential “to totally transform how we think about future biomedical interventions before there’s an emergence.” His goal was to not just react to a pandemic, but to change the very definition of preparedness.

If PREDICT’s efforts in China had the remote potential to fend off the current COVID pandemic, though, it also offered an opportunity to study how climate and land development were driving disease.

But there has been little appetite for that inquiry among policymakers. PREDICT’s staff and advisers have pushed the U.S. government to consider how welding public health policy with environmental and climate science could help stem the spread of contagions. Climate change was featured in presentations that PREDICT staff made to Congress, according to U.C. Davis’ Johnson, who is now also the director of PREDICT, which received a temporary funding extension this spring. And until 2016, leadership of New York-based EcoHealth Alliance, the research group working under PREDICT funding in Yunnan, was invited several times to the White House to advise on global health policy.

Since Donald Trump was elected, the group hasn’t been invited back.

“It’s falling on deaf ears,” said Peter Daszak, EcoHealth Alliance’s president.

A White House spokesperson did not respond to an emailed request for comment.

What Daszak really wants — in addition to restored funding to continue his work — is the public and leaders to understand that it’s human behavior driving the rise in disease, just as it drives the climate crisis. In China’s forests, he looks past the destruction of trees and asks why they are being cut in the first place, and who is paying the cost. Metals for iPhones and palm oil for processed foods are among the products that come straight out of South Asian and African emerging disease hot spots.

“We turn a blind eye to the fact that our behavior is driving this,” he said. “We get cheap goods through Walmart, and then we pay for it forever through the rise in pandemics. It’s upside down.”

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by Michael Grabell

On Tuesday, March 31, an emergency room doctor at the main hospital in Grand Island, Nebraska, sent an urgent email to the regional health department: “Numerous patients” from the JBS beef packing plant had tested positive for COVID-19. The plant, he feared, was becoming a coronavirus “hot spot.”

The town’s medical clinics were also reporting a rapid increase in cases among JBS workers. The next day, Dr. Rebecca Steinke, a family medicine doctor at one of the clinics, wrote to the department’s director: “Our message is really that JBS should shut down for 2 weeks and have a solid screening plan before re-opening.”

Teresa Anderson, the regional health director, immediately drafted a letter to the governor.

But during a conference call that Sunday, Gov. Pete Ricketts made it clear that the plant, which produces nearly 1 billion pounds of beef a year and is the town’s largest employer, would not be shut down.

Since then, Nebraska has become one of the fastest-growing hot spots for the novel coronavirus in the United States, and Grand Island has led the way. Cases in the city of 50,000 people have skyrocketed from a few dozen when local health officials first reported their concerns to more than 1,200 this week as the virus spread to workers, their families and the community.

The dismissed warnings in Grand Island, documented in emails that ProPublica obtained under the state’s public records law, show how quickly the virus can spread when politicians overrule local health officials. But on a broader scale, the events unfolding in Nebraska provide an alarming case study of what may come now that President Donald Trump has used the Defense Production Act to try to ensure meat processing plants remain open, severely weakening public health officials’ leverage to stop the spread of the virus in their communities.

Ricketts spokesman Taylor Gage said the governor explained on the call with local officials that the plant would stay open because it was declared an essential industry by the federal government. Two and a half weeks later, as cases were rising among the state’s meatpacking workers, Ricketts, a Republican businessman whose father founded the brokerage TD Ameritrade, held a news conference and said he couldn’t foresee a scenario where he would tell the meatpacking plants to close because of their importance to the nation’s food supply.

“Can you imagine what would happen if people could not go to the store and get food?” he asked. “Think about how mad people were when they couldn’t get paper products.”

“Trust me,” he added, “this would cause civil unrest.”

In the last two weeks, small meatpacking towns across Nebraska have experienced outbreaks, including at a Tyson Foods beef plant in Dakota City, a Costco chicken plant in Fremont and a Smithfield Foods pork plant in Crete. With the governor vowing to keep plants open, the companies have only in recent days decided to close for deep cleanings as cases have grown to staggering levels.

In Grand Island, two hours west of Omaha, the consequences of the governor’s decision came quickly. The CHI Health St. Francis hospital, which has 16 intensive care beds, was soon overwhelmed. At one point in April, it had so many critical patients that it had to call in three different helicopter companies to airlift patients to larger hospitals in Lincoln and Omaha, said Beth Bartlett, the hospital’s vice president for patient care.

JBS workers felt the strain, too. Under pressure to keep the food supply chain flowing, some of the plant’s 3,500 workers, many hailing from Latin America, Somalia and Sudan, said they were told to report for work regardless. In a letter to the governor last week, Nebraska Appleseed, a nonprofit advocacy group, said a JBS worker had been told by his supervisor that if he tested positive, he should come to work anyway and “keep it on the DL” or he’d be fired. Some workers who’d been told to quarantine after being exposed told ProPublica this week that they were called back to work before the 14-day window recommended by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention — even if they felt sick. One worker in the offal, or entrails, section recently fainted in the plant, they said, but was told he couldn’t go home.

Cameron Bruett, head of corporate affairs for JBS, said the company has worked in partnership with local officials to prevent the spread of the coronavirus and did not influence the governor’s decision to keep the plant open. He pointed to comments made recently by University of Nebraska Medical Center officials who toured the plant, who said JBS has put in place some “best practices,” including installing barriers on the meat cutting line, communicating new precautions in multiple languages and ensuring the proper use of masks.

Bruett said no one is forced to come to work or punished for calling in sick. “Such actions, if true, would be grotesque and a clear violation of our culture,” he said.

The emails obtained by ProPublica show that local health officials have traced 260 cases to the JBS plant. But that was nearly two weeks ago and almost certainly underestimates the total. Anderson, who directs the Central District Health Department, said she hasn’t had enough tests to do targeted testing of JBS employees and is only testing people when they’re symptomatic. In Grand Island and its surrounding county, 32 people have died from the virus. According to workers, at least one of those was a JBS employee.

Across the country, more than 10,000 COVID-19 cases have been linked to meatpacking plants, and at least three dozen workers are known to have died, a ProPublica review of news reports and government health data shows.

While cases in the worst hit urban areas like New York appear to have plateaued, the nation’s meatpacking towns have continued to see spikes. A few large outbreaks have dominated public attention, but COVID-19 cases have popped up in well over 100 plants in mostly rural communities. There the virus’s impact is magnified by the workers’ sometimes cramped living conditions, with multiple generations of immigrant and refugee families often residing together in apartments, houses and trailers.

Before Trump’s order, more than 30 plants had shut down at least briefly to increase cleaning and control the spread among their workforces. The various closures have cut beef and pork production by more than a third compared with last year, causing supply chain disruptions for some supermarkets and fast-food chains.

Some of those closures show the role public health officials have had in the actions of large meatpacking companies like JBS, which has beef, pork and poultry plants in 27 states.

In Colorado, Dr. Mark Wallace of the Weld County Department of Public Health and Environment and state health director Jill Hunsaker Ryan grew worried that that if the coronavirus spread at JBS’ Greeley plant, it would have a “devastating” effect on the community that “would quickly overwhelm the medical resources available in the hospitals.”

Unlike Nebraska, Colorado’s health officials eventually ordered the JBS plant to close. But documents obtained by ProPublica show the protracted debate that came before that decision, with JBS invoking the governor to question the formal closure order. By the time the order was issued, some public officials felt the virus had been given too big a head start.

Like Grand Island, Greeley officials were already hearing by the end of March that hospital emergency rooms were seeing a “high number of JBS employees,” according to an email Wallace sent April 1 to the plant’s occupational health director.

“Their concern, and mine, is far too many employees must be working when sick and spreading infection to others,” Wallace wrote, urging the plant to take additional safety measures.

Three days later, Wallace wrote a more detailed letter to JBS’ human resources director, Chris Gaddis, documenting the virus’s spread and threatening to shut the plant down if it didn’t screen employees and ensure they could work 6 feet apart.

But as days passed, the situation in Greeley didn’t improve.

“Want you to know my colleagues are not reassured by what I’m sharing about measures being implemented,” Wallace wrote to Gaddis. “‘The cat’s out of the bag’ is what all health care providers are saying — too many sick people already, too much spread already, etc.”

After nine days of back-and-forth, JBS agreed to close the plant and Hunsaker Ryan and Wallace issued a formal shutdown order. But negotiations seemed to stretch until the last minute, emails show.

After Hunsaker Ryan sent JBS the order on the afternoon of April 10, Gaddis appeared confused. “It is our understanding from the telephone conversation that the governor did not want this letter sent,” Gaddis wrote. “Please confirm it was properly sent.”

Bruett said the company’s impression was that the governor didn’t feel a formal order “was necessary given our voluntary decision to shut down.” But Conor Cahill, a spokesman for Gov. Jared Polis, said: “Of course the governor wanted the health order sent. The governor has been clear that JBS needs to be more transparent with their staff and the public about the situation at their plant.”

Notified of the shutdown by his staff, Greeley Mayor John Gates wrote in an email, “In my opinion, that should have happened a week ago for the health and safety of their employees.”

On Wednesday, the state announced the latest numbers on the JBS outbreak: 280 employees had tested positive for COVID-19, and seven of them had died.

The Grand Island beef plant opened in 1965 in a sugar beet farming area. In recent decades, the plant has drawn immigrants from Mexico and Central America, and more recently refugees from Somalia and Sudan. In a sign of the area’s shifting workforce, Somali residents have opened a mosque in the old El Diamante nightclub and a community center in the former Lucky 7 Saloon next to a Salvadoran restaurant named El Tazumal.

Members of those communities became among the first to hit the area’s medical clinics as the virus began to spread. By the last week in March, the Family Practice of Grand Island, where Steinke works, had opened a special respiratory clinic to handle COVID-19 patients. That week, six of the patients had come from JBS. But over three days from March 30 to April 1, the clinic saw 25 patients that carried JBS insurance, indicating they were either employees or their dependents.

Danny Lemos’ father was one of the first JBS workers to get sick from the virus in late March. The 62-year-old, who’d worked at the plant for a year, had developed a fever and a cough.

“One day, he was laying in the living room on a chair, wrapped up in a blanket, shivering,” Lemos said. “My mom takes his temperature, and he had a temperature of 105 and he was really having trouble breathing.”

His father was rushed to the hospital and put on a ventilator.

Within days, Lemos said he also started having trouble breathing and joined his father in the ICU. Lemos, 39, was put in a medically induced coma and given a 20% chance of living, he said.

Surprisingly, he said, he eventually recovered and was released from the hospital in late April. His father, Danny Lemos Sr., has been in the hospital for more than a month, most of the time on a ventilator, and is only now starting to recover.

Lemos said JBS should have taken better precautions.

“Shutting down right away, I think, probably would have helped a ton,” he said. “Do I think it would have kept everybody from getting sick? No, because those same people are still going to be out and about in the community. But just being so many people in one building, it was like a ticking time bomb.”

In an interview this week, Steinke said that it was hard to get the message across to JBS that more needed to be done.

“Even if they did not stop or shut down, if they would have put in better protections right from the start,” she said, “we would not have seen such a rapid rise in cases.”

At one point before the governor’s decision, the emails ProPublica obtained show, officials found language on the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s website that said local authorities could close a plant and the USDA would follow those decisions, potentially giving the health district some leverage.

“I guess I will send it to … HR there and maybe he will take us more seriously,” Anderson, the local health director, wrote in an email to the city administrator.

Under Trump’s executive order, that guidance has been reversed: The USDA could try to overrule local decisions if federal officials disagree.

That could pose a risk to the USDA’s own workforce of federal food inspectors, who work inside the plants to ensure the meat is safe to eat. According to the emails, some inspectors at the JBS plant also tested positive. Because inspectors sometimes monitor multiple sites, one inspector noted that she had recently worked in two other plants that have also had outbreaks, potentially spreading the virus within other plants.

“From my perspective,” temporarily closing the JBS plant “would have reduced the transmission,” Anderson said in an interview this week. “But if you shut down a plant and your 3,700 employees have nowhere to go, where are they going to go and how far is the spread going to be outside the plant vs. inside the plant? And if you end up going a month, what happens to their ability to feed their families?”

Anderson said that the “general feeling” she got from the call with the governor was that they needed to do more testing. So after the governor blocked the effort to close the plant, she continued to try to work collaboratively with JBS to encourage more testing of their employees.

In the emails, JBS officials said they were open to testing but repeatedly expressed concern about public disclosure of the results. “We want to make sure that testing is conducted in a way that does not foment fear or panic among our employees or the community,” JBS chief ethics and compliance officer Nicholas White wrote in an email to Anderson on April 15.

A week later, after the number of JBS cases was released by Anderson, Tim Schellpeper, president of the company’s U.S. beef processing operations, emailed her that he was worried about the amount of national attention it was attracting. “Have you given more thought to adding clarity/correction around this in your comments today?” he asked.

As JBS officials fretted about the optics of testing their employees, tensions within the families of the workers mounted. As the number of sick workers grew, the daughter of one worker, Miriam, said she was panicking about what would happen to her mother, who worked on the plant’s kill floor. At the end of every shift, she said, she called her mother to make sure she was okay.

“It was dreadful,” said Miriam, who asked that her last name not be used to protect her mother from retaliation. “It was just kind of living in fear waiting for the day she would have a fever. We knew it was going to happen because she’s a JBS employee. We didn’t think it was preventable anymore.”

Then, one day, she got a call from her mother, telling her that she had developed a fever and was being sent home.

“As she was changing in the locker room, she calls me and you can just hear the fear in her voice,” Miriam said.

Shortly after, her father tested positive for the virus too. Thankfully, she said, both her parents had only mild symptoms and have since recovered. But JBS and the governor should have done more, Miriam said.

“It just seemed like they were kind of careless,” she said. “I think it would have been a smart idea if not to close down the plant, to take more action to help the employees. They’re essential, but they need protection. They need to be kept safe.”

In the meantime, Ricketts has said that his approach of keeping the state “open for business” worked. And at a news conference Friday, he underscored the importance of the meatpacking industry to the state’s economy, proclaiming May as “Beef Month” in Nebraska.

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by Joshua Kaplan and Benjamin Hardy

On April 17 in Toledo, Ohio, a 19-year-old black man was arrested for violating the state stay-at-home order. In court filings, police say he took a bus from Detroit to Toledo “without a valid reason.” Six young black men were arrested in Toledo last Saturday while hanging out on a front lawn; police allege they were “seen standing within 6 feet of each other.” In Cincinnati, a black man was charged with violating stay-at-home orders after he was shot in the ankle on April 7; according to a police affidavit, he was talking to a friend in the street when he was shot and was “clearly not engaged in essential activities.”

Ohio’s health director, Dr. Amy Acton, issued the state’s stay-at-home order on March 22, prohibiting people from leaving their home except for essential activities and requiring them to maintain social distancing “at all times.” A violation of the order is a misdemeanor, punishable by up to 90 days in jail and a $750 fine. Since the order, hundreds of people have been charged with violations across Ohio.

The state has also seen some of the most prominent protests against state stay-at-home orders, as large crowds gather on the statehouse steps to flout the directives. But the protesters, most of them white, have not faced arrest. Rather, in three large Ohio jurisdictions ProPublica examined, charges of violating the order appear to have fallen disproportionately on black people.

ProPublica analyzed court records for the city of Toledo and for the counties that include Columbus and Cincinnati, three of the most populous jurisdictions in Ohio. In all of them, ProPublica found, black people were at least four times as likely to be charged with violating the stay-at-home order as white people.

As states across the country attempt to curb the spread of COVID-19, stay-at-home orders have proven instrumental in the fight against the novel coronavirus; experts credit aggressive restrictions with flattening the curve in the nation’s hotbeds. Many states’ orders carry criminal penalties for violations of the stay-at-home mandates. But as the weather warms up and people spend more time outside, defense lawyers and criminal justice reform advocates fear that black communities long subjected to overly aggressive policing will face similarly aggressive enforcement of stay-at-home mandates.

In Ohio, ProPublica found, the disparities are already pronounced.

As of Thursday night in Hamilton County, which is 27% black and home to Cincinnati, there were 107 charges for violating the order; 61% of defendants are black. The majority of arrests came from towns surrounding Cincinnati, which is 43% black. Of the 29 people charged by the city’s Police Department, 79% were black, according to data provided to ProPublica by the Hamilton County Public Defender.

In Toledo, where black people make up 27% of the population, 18 of the 23 people charged thus far were black.

Lt. Kellie Lenhardt, a spokeswoman for the Toledo Police Department, said that in enforcing the stay-at-home order, the department’s goal is not to arrest people and that officers are primarily responding to calls from people complaining about violations of the order. She told ProPublica that if the police arrested someone, the officers believed they had probable cause, and that while biased policing would be “wrong,” it would also be wrong to arrest more white people simply “to balance the numbers.”

In Franklin County, which is 23.5% black, 129 people were arrested between the beginning of the stay-at-home order and May 4; 57% of the people arrested were black.

In Cleveland, which is 50% black and is the state’s second-largest city, the Municipal Court’s public records do not include race data. The court and the Cleveland Police Department were unable to readily provide demographic information about arrests to ProPublica, though on Friday, the police said they have issued eight charges so far.

In the three jurisdictions, about half of those charged with violating the order were also charged with other offenses, such as drug possession and disorderly conduct. The rest were charged only with violating the order; among that group, the percentage of defendants who were black was even higher.

Franklin Country is home to Columbus, where enforcement of the stay-at-home order has made national headlines for a very different reason. Columbus is the state capital and Ohio’s largest city with a population of almost 900,000. In recent weeks, groups of mostly white protesters have campaigned against the stay-at-home order on the Statehouse steps and outside the health director’s home. Some protesters have come armed, and images have circulated of crowds of demonstrators huddled close, chanting, many without masks.

No protesters have been arrested for violating the stay-at-home order, a spokesperson for the Columbus mayor’s office told ProPublica. Thomas Hach, an organizer of a group called Free Ohio Now, said in an email that he was not aware of any arrests associated with protests in the entire state. The Columbus Division of Police did not respond to ProPublica’s request for comment.

Ohio legislators are contemplating reducing the criminal penalties for violating the order. On Wednesday, the state House passed legislation that would eliminate the possibility of jail time for stay-at-home violators. A first offense would result in a warning, and further violations would result in a small fine. The bill is pending in the state Senate.

Penalties for violating stay-at-home orders vary across the country. In many states, including California, Florida, Michigan and Washington, violations can land someone behind bars. In New York state, violations can only result in fines. In Baltimore, police told local media they had only charged two people with violations; police have reportedly relied on a recording played over the loudspeakers of squad cars: “Even if you aren’t showing symptoms, you could still have coronavirus and accidentally spread it to a relative or neighbor. Being home is being safe. We are all in this together.”

Enforcement has often resulted in controversy. In New York City, a viral video showed police pull out a Taser and punch a black man after they approached a group of people who weren’t wearing masks. Police say the man who was punched took a “fighting stance” when ordered to disperse. In Orlando, police arrested a homeless man walking a bicycle because he was not obeying curfew. In Hawaii, charges against a man accused of stealing a car battery, normally a misdemeanor punishable by up to 30 days in jail, were enhanced to a felony, which can result in 10 years in prison, because police and prosecutors said he was in violation of the state order.

The orders are generally broad, and decisions about which violations to treat as acceptable and which ones to penalize have largely been left to local police departments’ discretion.

Kristen Clarke, president of the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law, a legal organization focused on racial justice, said such discretion has opened the door to police abuse, and she said the U.S. Department of Justice or state governments should issue detailed guidelines about when to make arrests. That discretion “is what’s given rise to these rogue practices,” she told ProPublica, “that are putting black communities and communities of color with a target on their backs.”

In jails and prisons around the country, inmates have fallen ill or died from COVID-19 as the virus spreads rapidly through the facilities. Many local governments have released some inmates from jail and ordered police to reduce arrests for minor crimes. But in Hamilton County, some people charged with failing to maintain social distancing have been kept in jail for at least one night, even without any other charges. Recently, two sheriff’s deputies who work in the jail tested positive for COVID-19. “The cops put their hands on them, they cram them in the car, they take them to the [jail], which has 800 to 1400 people, depending on the night,” said Sean Vicente, director of the Hamilton County Public Defender’s misdemeanor division. “It’s often so crowded everyone’s just sitting on the floor.”

Clarke said the enforcement push is sometimes undercutting the public health effort: “Protecting people’s health is in direct conflict with putting people in overcrowded jails and prisons that have been hotbeds for the virus.”

Court records show that the Cincinnati Police Department has adopted some surprising applications of the law.

Six people were charged with violations of the order after they were shot. Only one was charged with another crime as well, but police affidavits state that when they were shot, they were or likely were in violation of the order. One man was shot in the ankle while talking to a friend, according to court filings, and “was clearly not engaged in essential activities.” Another was arrested with the same explanation; police wrote that he had gone to the hospital with a gunshot wound. The Cincinnati Police Department did not respond to ProPublica’s requests for comment.

In Springfield Township, a small, mostly white Cincinnati suburb, nine people have been arrested for violating the order thus far. All of them are black.

Springfield Township Police Chief Robert Browder told ProPublica in an email that the department is “an internationally accredited law enforcement organization” and has “strict policies ... to ensure that our zero tolerance policy prohibiting bias-based profiling is adhered to.”

Browder said race had not played a role in his department’s enforcement of the order and that he was “appalled if that is the insinuation.”

Several of the black people arrested in Springfield Township were working for a company that sells books and magazine subscriptions door to door. One of the workers, Carl Brown, 50, said he and five colleagues were working in Springfield Township when two members of the team were arrested while going door to door. Police called the other sales people, and when they arrived at the scene, they too were arrested. Five of them, including Brown, were charged only with violating the stay-at-home order; the sixth sales person had an arrest warrant in another state, according to Browder, and police also charged her for giving them false identification.

Brown said one of the officers had left the group with a warning: They should never come back, and if they do, it’s “going to be worse.”

Browder denied that the officers made such a threat, and he said the police had received calls from residents about the sales people and their tactics and that the sales people had failed to register with the Police Department, as required for door-to-door solicitation.

Other violations in Hamilton County have been more egregious, but even in some of those cases, the law enforcement response has stirred controversy. On April 4, a man who had streamed a party on Facebook Live, saying, “We don’t give a fuck about this coronavirus,” was arrested in Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine neighborhood, the setting of a 2001 riot after police fatally shot an unarmed black man.

The man who streamed the party, Rashaan Davis, was charged with violating the stay-at-home order and inciting violence, and his bond was set at $350,000.

After Judge Alan Triggs said he would release Davis from jail pretrial because the offense charged was nonviolent, local media reported, prosecutors dropped the misdemeanor and said they would focus on the charge of inciting violence, a felony.

The Hamilton County prosecutor’s office declined to comment on Davis’ case.

In Toledo, there’s been public controversy around perceived differences in the application of the law. On April 21, debate at the Toledo City Council meeting centered around a food truck. Local politicians discussed recent arrests of young black people at house parties, some contrasting them with a large, white crowd standing close together in line outside a BBQ stand, undisturbed by police. Councilmember Gary Johnson told ProPublica he’s asked the police chief to investigate why no one was arrested at a party he’d heard about, where white people were congregating on docks. “I don’t know the circumstances of the arrests,” he said. But “if you feel you need to go into poor neighborhoods and African American neighborhoods, you better be going into white neighborhoods too. … You have to say we’re going to be heavy-handed with the stay-at-home order or we’re going to be light with it. It has to be one or the other.”

Toledo police enforcement has not been confined to partygoers. Armani Thomas, 20, is one of the six young men arrested for not social distancing on a lawn. He told ProPublica he was sitting there with nine friends “doing nothing” when the police pulled up. Two kids ran off, and the police made the rest stay, eventually arresting “all the dudes” and letting the girls go. He was taken to the county jail, where several inmates have tested positive, for booking and released after several hours. The men’s cases are pending.

“When police see black people gathered in public, I think there’s this looming belief that they must be doing something illegal,” RaShya Ghee, a criminal defense attorney and lecturer at the University of Toledo, told ProPublica. “They’re hanging out in a yard — something illegal must have happened. Or, something illegal is about to happen.”

Lenhardt, the police lieutenant, said the six men were arrested after police received 911 calls reporting “a group gathering and flashing guns.” None of the six men were arrested on gun charges. As for the 19-year-old charged for taking the bus without reason, she said police asked him on consecutive days to not loiter at a bus station.

With more than 70,000 Americans dead from the coronavirus, government officials have not figured out how to balance the threat of COVID-19 with the harms of over policing, Clarke said. “On the one hand, we want to beat back the pandemic. That’s critical. That’s the end goal,” she told ProPublica. “On the other hand, we’re seeing social distancing being used as a pretext to arrest the very communities that have been hit hardest by the virus.”

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