Former Illinois lawmaker sentenced to over 7 years in prison for corruption
Former Illinois lawmaker Michael Madigan was sentenced to more than seven years in prison following a federal corruption trial in Chicago.
Madigan, the longest serving legislative leader in U.S. history, will also be required to pay a $2.5 million fine following a February conviction on 10 of 23 counts of corruption.
'I'm truly sorry for putting the people of the state of Illinois through this,' Madigan, the former speaker of the state house, said before the sentencing according to the Associated Press.
'I tried to do my best to serve the people of the state of Illinois,' he said. 'I am not perfect.'
His defense attorneys pushed for five years probation, hoping that he could stay at home to care for his wife Shirley, who's suffering from aging complications.
However, U.S. District Judge John Robert Blakey showed little leniency for the 83 year old who prosecutors said undertook corrupt dealings for years with supporting evidence from 60 witnesses and stacks of documents.
'Being great is hard. Being honest is not. It's hard to commit crimes. It actually takes effort,' Blakey said during the hearing.
The Democrat was once lauded for his historic political career, after serving as speaker for the Illinois General Assembly for 50 years.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Sarah Streicker said Madigan forwent opportunities to support an 'honest government' but 'fit right into the mold of yet another corrupt leader in Illinois,' as reported by the AP.
As a result of Streicker's court presentation, jurors found Madigan guilty for overarching racketeering conspiracy on six counts while acquitting him on seven other charges.
The former elected official was facing up to 105 years in prison for the pile of charges and the judge said Madigan should be held accountable for not accepting guilt but committing perjury on the stand instead.
'You lied. You did not have to. You had a right to sit there and exercise your right to silence,' Blakey said per AP. 'But you took the stand and you took the law into your own hands.'
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Chicago Tribune
an hour ago
- Chicago Tribune
‘A tale of two Mike Madigans': How the ex-Speaker's trial testimony offered his life story but also route to 7 1/2-year sentence
Months before a federal judge sentenced former Illinois House Speaker Michael Madigan to prison on Friday, the once-mighty state Democratic Party chairman took the witness stand in his corruption trial in an attempt to save himself. The only politician in America to serve 36 years as a House speaker guided jurors through his version of a complex personal and political life where few have gone before. For a high-profile Chicago politician that some called the 'sphinx' because of his secrecy, Madigan's decision to testify demonstrated he could not sit by and let his fate play out without speaking up. On Friday, Madigan found himself in a different posture, pleading for mercy as he asked for more time with a family that included an ailing wife. 'When I look back on my life, being speaker is not what gives me the most pride,' Madigan said. 'I am most proud of being a good husband, a good father and now a good grandfather.' In sentencing Madigan to seven and a half years in federal prison and fining him $2.5 million, U.S. District Judge John Robert Blakey made it clear that Madigan's decision to testify at trial had cost him dearly. The judge called some aspects of his testimony about the details of the alleged schemes 'a nauseating display of perjury' that was 'hard to watch.' Blakey said he was struck by what essentially was 'a tale of two different Mike Madigans,' a play on the theme of a Charles Dickens classic, adding that the space between good and evil is 'a line that passes right through the heart of every single person.' 'Hero or villain? Well, I suppose both are true,' the judge said. By many accounts, Madigan was a good family man who often helped people who needed it without expecting anything in return, Blakey said. That made it all the more difficult to reconcile Madigan the politician, convicted in a yearslong bribery scheme to use his public office to boost his private law practice and enrich his closest associates. 'This case is really sad because the defendant is a dedicated public servant, apart from the crimes committed in this case,' Blakey said. 'He's also a good and decent person. He had no reason to commit these crimes, but he chose to do so.' Madigan's surprise decision to take the stand in his own defense provided Illinoisans extensive and personal details about a man who, whether they knew it or not, had shaped much of their lives. During his 50 years as a state lawmaker, Madigan held sway on monumental issues, from the state income taxes Illinoisans pay, to the roads they drive on, to the candidates they get to vote for each election cycle. He even made the House clock stand still long enough to beat a midnight deadline so his beloved White Sox could build the South Side stadium where fans watch the team play. Madigan's version of his life story was curated and highly subjective, of course, but it was a story only he could tell. He portrayed himself as something many in Illinois politics never saw: a sympathetic character whose parents 'never told me that they loved me.' He revealed his own father's struggles with alcohol, how his father slapped him on the head when he came home drunk early one morning and how his father wanted his only son to refrain from excessive drinking. He recounted a whirlwind romance that culminated in marrying a woman with a young daughter who had a contentious relationship with her biological father and would eventually win four terms as attorney general. For decades, Chicagoans knew Madigan as a larger-than-life power player who racked up multiple Democratic victories. But his courtroom comments came as he fought for his own freedom. There were no highlight reels about fighting for workers, securing pork-barrel projects or forging consensus with lawmakers to pass gay marriage and concealed carry laws. Madigan presented himself as a person whose natural inclination was to avoid confrontation, an attempt to explain why he went to co-defendant Michael McClain, a lobbyist, former lawmaker and longtime Madigan confidant, to help hire former precinct captains and aldermen as well as deliver bad news to legislative colleagues. But Madigan's extraordinary four days of testimony, in the end, weren't enough. Federal prosecutors punched back. They argued successfully that the feel-good stories Madigan told opened the door to present more evidence designed to undercut his rosier testimony, including with a tape in which he famously said 'some of these guys have made out like bandits.' After 11 days and 64 hours of deliberations, jurors came back with a split verdict that found Madigan guilty on 10 of 23 criminal charges. Despite Friday's sentencing, Madigan is still expected to battle on appeal to overturn the verdict and rewrite a legacy that now paints him as just another crooked Illinois politician, one who squeezed ComEd to put his cronies into no-work jobs while the fate of the utility's legislative agenda rested in his hands. Ever since the Madigan investigation exploded six years ago, he has argued that he simply made job recommendations for people over the length of his half-century career, considered it a part of his job, and rejected the allegation that he took official action in exchange for a thing of value — insisting he never engaged in an illegal quid pro quo. 'When people ask me for help, if possible,' Madigan testified, 'I try to help them.' When Madigan was born 83 years ago, his father was a cog in the Democratic machine who became a political stalwart as 13th Ward superintendent. Madigan's mother was a homemaker, and his sister was five years younger. He grew up in the Marquette Park area on the city's Southwest Side. 'My father dominated the house,' Madigan said. 'My mother was quiet and reserved.' 'In that house,' Madigan testified, 'the word 'nurturing' didn't exist. My parents never told me that they loved me. They never embraced, never hugged. That was just the condition that existed at the time.' Madigan's parents also were 'very strict' about his schoolwork, particularly after a nun saw he scored better than she expected on his fifth grade exam at St. Adrian, a Catholic grammar school, and told his parents to 'get on my case.' 'And so, as it was in those years, they got out the whips, and they went to work,' Madigan testified. 'So I became a more diligent student.' In Madigan's seventh and eighth grade years, yet another nun urged him to go to St. Ignatius for high school, one of a handful on his father's approved list, and then, after high school, going to the University of Notre Dame became a 'foregone conclusion.' Along the way, Madigan held jobs typical of a family embedded in the Democratic machine, which by 1955 was beginning to be run by Mayor Richard J. Daley. He worked a couple of summers as a junior laborer at a nearby Chicago Park District nursery when he was around 14 or 15, helping to grow trees and bushes for the park system. He then landed a job on a 'dirt truck' under his father's jurisdiction, picking up discarded mattresses and broken refrigerators placed on curbs and scooping dirt piled up by street sweepers and shoveling it into a truck to haul to a dump. Eventually, though, he convinced his father to be reassigned to a garbage truck, a job that came with a 'nightly interrogation' since his father supervised ward services. 'This became difficult,' Madigan testified. 'And my father had been an alcoholic who had quit drinking. He carried an anger problem, short fuse. And so when something went wrong or something went against his wishes, why, there would be a display of anger. And if anybody happened to be in the line of fire, why, it was not a pleasant experience. And in my case, why, it just — it just had me develop a habit where I never wanted to disagree with him, So if I'm in a conversation with him, he's not happy, he's disparaging me, I would just say, 'Yeah, yeah, yeah, yes, sir, yes, sir, yeah, yeah, yeah,' just to get out of the conversation.' The vignette appeared to be aimed at explaining why Madigan habitually gave brief 'yeah' or 'mmhm' answers to questions, such as an attempt to diffuse prosecutors' arguments that his innocuous phrases condoned alleged misdeeds. Madigan also testified his father's alcoholism played into a life lesson once when the young Madigan came home around 2 or 3 a.m. 'greatly under the influence of alcohol.' 'My father greeted me at the door, and I got a good, solid slap right across the side of my face,' Madigan said. Later that morning, Madigan's mother sent him to his father's office for a 'very somber meeting.' 'My father really never talked about drinking until this meeting. … He was very concerned that I might have the same problem that he had,' Madigan explained. 'And he extracted two promises out of me. Number one, never drink on an empty stomach. Make sure you have some food in your stomach before you drink. Number two, never drink before sundown. Never drink before sundown. And so I told him I would abide by that, and I have.' Advice from his father shaped many other parts of Madigan's thinking, from his longtime support of organized labor to making an extraordinary political connection while attending law school at Loyola University. In between his first and second year in law school, he worked as an assistant to the 13th Ward alderman, handling often angry and frustrated constituents with requests that ranged from needing a tree trimmed to getting their garbage picked up on time. 'It left me with a lifetime understanding that people like myself involved in government and politics should strive to be responsive to the citizens of the states, citizens of the nation,' Madigan said. He later worked as a law clerk in the city of Chicago Law Department, a spot right next to the office of Mayor Daley. 'We developed an acquaintance relationship,' Madigan said, adding: 'He knew my father.' When Madigan graduated from law school in 1967, he took his first job as a lawyer in the same city Law Department. He then landed a job as a hearing officer at the Illinois Commerce Commission, which oversees utilities. But he soon learned a lesson in politics when a Republican committeeman started pulled strings. 'I was a Democrat, and I was involved with the local Democratic organizations in the 13th Ward,' Madigan testified. 'That organization issued a newsletter, and I wrote a column for the Young Democrats. The newsletter fell into the hands of the local Republican ward committeeman, who also happened to be the Republican Cook County chairman.' But instead of getting fired immediately, as the GOP official wanted, the ICC chairman gave Madigan time to find another job. He landed back in the city law department, once again as part of the Daley administration. Madigan's political career would soon rise. He won a vote among precinct committeemen in 1969 to replace the 13th Ward's Democratic committeeman, who had died. He won election as a delegate to the state's constitutional convention, which crafted the 1970 Illinois Constitution, which is still in place today. One of his fellow delegates was Richard M. Daley, Hizzoner's son and a future Chicago mayor himself. Thanks to Democratic Party slating, Madigan soon won his House seat for the first time in 1970, and he spent his first term 'not active,' but rather 'just observing and attempting to learn.' After Madigan's father died, the new lawmaker befriended a gregarious veteran, Rep. E.J. 'Zeke' Giorgi, a Rockford Democrat who excelled in retail politics. 'My personality was very strident,' Madigan said of his early days as a lawmaker, 'and I didn't do well interacting with the other representatives.' Giorgi's 'personality was completely different than mine,' said Madigan, an understatement to anyone who knew the secretive Madigan and the always-talkative Giorgi. 'He was open, outgoing, did very well at relating to other people, understanding other people, and being able to work cooperatively with them. So he gave me an education as to how I should change my methods and how I should conduct myself differently than I had when I first arrived.' Madigan said the most important lesson he learned from Giorgi was that 'it's really important to strive to know and understand other people. You know, it's one thing to have your own ideas. But in life, but in particular in a legislative body, it's really important that you understand that everybody comes there with their own ideas. They're entitled to support positions that they support, and everybody should be given due respect.' Madigan told jurors he 'developed a lifetime friendship' with Giorgi, who is known as the father of the Illinois lottery and the House champion of riverboat gambling. It became clear in Madigan's testimony that experiences with his father and with Giorgi influenced how he handled the speakership. While establishing himself in Springfield during the mid-1970s, Madigan also met a woman who would become his wife, Shirley, a former flight attendant from Oregon, who worked at a Chicago law office where he would stop to discuss politics with a friend. 'It was a real quick romance,' Madigan said, 'and we got married, and we developed a family of three immediately because she had a daughter from a prior marriage who was about 10 or 11 years old at the time.' Madigan embraced the dual role of being a husband to Shirley and also a father to her daughter, Lisa, as they settled into the 13th Ward's West Lawn neighborhood. 'Shirley had gone through a very difficult divorce, a very contentious relationship with her first husband,' Madigan said. 'And my view was that … I would treat Lisa as my daughter, that I was not the biological father, but I had married Shirley. And, you know, I understood at the get-go that this was a — this is a dual package here. And so I just took on the parental responsibilities.' Madigan testified about Lisa's 'contentious relationship with her biological father' and the time he heard her crying while talking on the phone. 'I took the phone out of her hands, and her biological father was on the phone shouting at her,' Madigan said. 'And the language was so vile that I don't want to repeat it, but he was using the 'F' word as part of his expression.' Madigan testified he told Lisa that she never again had to see or talk to her biological father. Madigan said he received numerous threatening letters but avoided a physical confrontation with him, a point the Madigan team used to support the argument that he was non-confrontational on thorny matters. A Tribune review of courtroom transcripts revealed Madigan's deep reach into his background drew significant questions from Judge Blakey outside of the earshot of the jury and the courtroom audience. Blakey, in a private sidebar with lawyers outside of jurors' earshot, wondered about the relevance of Madigan testifying about 'some emotional incident' from decades ago. Ultimately, though, Blakey allowed Madigan's team to use the story to demonstrate the longtime speaker's 'approach toward confrontation or how he interacts with people and how he responds, certainly those things are relevant.' But Blakey gave a warning: 'That's not a blank check to bring in every possible experience.' The Madigan family grew as he and Shirley had three additional children, Nicole, Tiffany and Andrew, all of whom are now adults. Madigan adopted Lisa. Over the years, Lisa Madigan drew the most political interest. A former state senator who became Illinois' attorney general in 2003, she looked on track to be the first woman to be governor of Illinois. But that expectation took an abrupt turn in July 2013 when she sent a blast email that shook the state's political landscape. Despite raising money at a faster clip than incumbent Democratic Gov. Pat Quinn, she said she would not challenge him. Why? 'I feel strongly that the state would not be well served by having a governor and speaker of the House from the same family and have never planned to run for governor if that would be the case. With speaker Madigan planning to continue in office, I will not run for governor.' Ever since, many have pondered what would have happened if the speaker had stepped aside at that point. Instead, Lisa Madigan ran for reelection as attorney general, completed her fourth term and joined a private law firm. In her final days as attorney general, she would swear in her father to the speakership during a festive ceremony in 2019. 'Congratulations,' she said. 'You're the speaker again.' That would be Mike Madigan's last term as speaker before his own caucus ousted him two years later as the federal investigation began to close in. The Madigan & Getzendanner law firm also took center stage in the courtroom as prosecutors sought to tie Madigan's public actions to his attempts to land business for a practice that focused on winning property tax appeals. Prosecutors used testimony from disgraced former 25th Ward Ald. Danny Solis — who chaired the City Council's zoning committee — to buttress allegations about Madigan making deals with Solis to help score real estate business for the law firm. The straitlaced Madigan testified he had no idea until news broke in January 2019 that the feds had ensnared Solis in a sordid mix of city business, campaign contributions, bribery, sex, prostitutes and Viagra pills. Federal authorities flipped Solis, who helped take down Madigan and 14th Ward Ald. Ed Burke, who spent a record 54 years on the City Council and went to prison for racketeering, bribery and extortion. One pivotal moment in the Madigan trial was a 2018 recording in which Solis told Madigan that developers the speaker wanted in his law firm's portfolio, as Solis explained, to 'understand how this works, you know, the quid pro quo, the quid pro quo.' On the phone, Madigan's reaction sounded potentially like a subtle acknowledgement. But Madigan told jurors Solis' comments caused a 'great deal of surprise and concern.' 'I decided that I wanted to have a face-to-face meeting with Mr. Solis to give me an opportunity to tell him that I would not be involved in a quid pro quo,' Madigan said. A few days later, Madigan testified that he spoke to Solis, who 'genuinely appeared to recognize that he had made a serious mistake.' In that particular allegation, one involving Madigan's alleged pressure on developers of a West Loop high-rise to give him business, the jurors acquitted him of four counts. In all, the former speaker was convicted on Feb. 12 on 10 of the 23 corruption counts he faced. Jurors deadlocked on the marquee racketeering conspiracy charge that Madigan and co-defendant Michael McClain, a ComEd lobbyist, ran the ex-speaker's government and political operations like a criminal enterprise. Jurors could not reach a consensus on any charges against McClain, who stands convicted in the separate 'ComEd Four' case. But the jury convicted Madigan on a series of allegations tied to his talking about getting Solis, a key government mole who testified at length during the trial, appointed to a cushy paid position on a state board during the same conversations in which Solis promised to help Madigan acquire business for Madigan's law firm. As he wrapped up his days of denials, Madigan's testimony provided one more glimpse into what he now was thinking: 'One of my regrets is that I ever had any time spent with Danny Solis.' Prosecutors won pivotal rulings late in the trial to present key evidence to counter the Madigan team's position that he simply sought to help people find jobs. Blakey allowed jurors to see a video of Madigan's 2009 oral history interview with the University of Illinois Chicago about how he used to handle patronage when it was legal during the 1960s and 1970s heyday of the first Mayor Daley's Democratic machine. The video showed Madigan explaining how he taught people who wanted government jobs to sell Democratic candidates to voters like a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman. 'They wanted a job in the patronage system,' Madigan said. 'I would tell them, 'Yes, we can put you in a job. But you're going to work for the Democratic Party.' ' Madigan attorney Todd Pugh argued putting the recording into the trial would open a 'Pandora's box,' given that anti-patronage laws had changed the hiring landscape. Lead prosecutor Amarjeet Bhachu countered the 'reason the Pandora's box is there is because' Madigan's own direct testimony involved an 'unnecessary inquiry into what Mr. Madigan had done for 50 years.' Blakey followed up on his prior warnings: 'At multiple times, and whether it's a Pandora's box or whatever, whatever kind of box, it was … opened up on the direct testimony of the defendant.' Prosecutors also convinced Blakey to allow the infamous 'bandits' recording of Madigan and McClain talking about longtime labor leader Dennis Gannon getting a $150,000-a-year ComEd consulting contract. 'Some of these guys have made out like bandits, Mike,' Madigan told McClain as they both chuckled. Madigan's team argued the comment should have been barred because Gannon's position was not included in the charges against the ex-speaker. But Bhachu maintained it was fair because Madigan portrayed his motivation for a half-century of job recommendations as being 'solely for altruistic purposes, to help constituents.' In his own testimony, Madigan said the 'bandits' conversation with McClain had nothing at all to do with the no-work ComEd subcontractors at issue in the case. Instead, Madigan testified, they were talking about lobbyists in Springfield who would get paid big money to work six months out of the year. Prosecutors dismissed the counts against Madigan in which the jury deadlocked. Madigan is expected to appeal the sentence and request to remain free pending the outcome. The jury also deadlocked on six counts against McClain. He was convicted two years ago in the far-reaching 'ComEd Four' trial, an outgrowth of the Madigan investigation. McClain and three others also found guilty in that case are scheduled for sentencings later this summer. The government previously dropped a single count of bribery against Solis despite his own checkered history. Solis keeps his six-figure City Council pension, and Madigan's $158,000 annual pension was suspended immediately upon his conviction. In his remarks near the end of Friday's three-and-a-half-hour sentencing hearing, the judge found himself musing about Illinois' sordid history of corruption, saying he was not trying to sentence 'a social problem' but instead the single defendant who was before him in the courtroom. He also reflected on the measure of a man, acknowledging how difficult it is for politicians to achieve the level of integrity of someone like President Abraham Lincoln. 'It's really hard to be Honest Abe right?' Blakey said. 'He's a unicorn in our American history. Being great is hard. But being honest is not. Being honest is actually very easy. It's hard to commit crimes. It takes effort.' The fact that Madigan was a 'man of his word,' as he testified and as many who wrote letters of support agreed on, 'cuts both ways,' Blakey said, since he also 'kept his word with his co-conspirators and co-schemers.' In the end, Blakey said, the forces that landed Madigan in his courtroom were perplexing. 'He had no reason to do the things that he did in this case, and the fact that he is a good man and chose to do it is mystifying,' Blakey said. 'But he did it.'
Los Angeles Times
an hour ago
- Los Angeles Times
A Border Patrol agent died in 2009. His widow is still fighting for federal benefits
When her husband died after a grueling U.S. Border Patrol training program for new agents, Lisa Afolayan applied for the federal benefits promised to families of first responders whose lives are cut short in the line of duty. Sixteen years later, Afolayan and her two daughters haven't seen a penny, and program officials are defending their decisions to deny them compensation. She calls it a nightmare that too many grieving families experience. 'It just makes me so mad that we are having to fight this so hard,' said Afolayan, whose husband, Nate, had been hired to guard the U.S. border with Mexico in Southern California. 'It takes a toll emotionally, and I don't think they care. To them, it's just a business. They're just pushing paper.' Afolayan's case is part of a backlog of claims plaguing the fast-growing Public Safety Officers' Benefits Program. Hundreds of families of deceased and disabled officers are waiting years to learn whether they qualify for the life-changing payments, and more are ultimately being denied, an Associated Press analysis of program data found. The program is falling far short of its goal of deciding claims within one year. Nearly 900 have been pending for longer than that, triple the number from five years earlier, in a backlog that includes cases from nearly every state, according to AP's review, which was based on program data through late April. More than 120 of those claims have been in limbo for at least five years, and roughly a dozen have languished for a decade. 'That is just outrageous that the person has to wait that long,' said Charlie Lauer, the program's general counsel in the 1980s. 'Those poor families.' Justice Department officials who oversee the program acknowledge the backlog. They say they're managing a surge in claims — which have more than doubled in the last five years — while making complicated decisions about whether cases meet legal criteria. In a statement, they said that 'claims involving complex medical and causation issues, voluminous evidence and conflicting medical opinions take longer to determine, as do claims in various stages of appeal.' It acknowledged that a few cases 'continue through the process over ten years.' Program officials wouldn't comment on Afolayan's case. Federal lawyers are asking an appeals court for a second time to uphold their denials, which blame Nate's heat- and exertion-related death on a genetic condition shared by millions of Black Americans. Nate Afolayan was Black. Supporters say Lisa Afolayan's resilience in pursuing the claim has been remarkable and grown in significance as training-related deaths like Nate's have risen. 'Your death must fit in their box, or your family's not going to be taken care of,' said Afolayan, who lives in suburban Dallas. Their daughter, Natalee, was 3 when her father died. She recently completed her first year at the University of Texas, without the help of the higher education benefits the program provides. Congress created the Public Safety Officers' Benefits program in 1976, providing a one-time $50,000 payout as a guarantee for those whose loved ones die in the line of duty. The benefit was later set to adjust with inflation; today it pays $448,575. The program has awarded more than $2.4 billion. Early on, claims were often adjudicated within weeks. But the complexity increased in 1990, when Congress extended the program to some disabled officers. A 1998 law added educational benefits for spouses and children. Since 2020, Congress has passed three laws expanding eligibility — to officers who died after contracting COVID-19, first responders who died or were disabled in rescue and cleanup operations from the 9/11 attacks, and some who die by suicide. Today, the program receives 1,200 claims annually, up from 500 in 2019. The wait time for decisions and rate of denials have risen alongside the caseload. Roughly 1 of every 3 death and disability claims were rejected over the last year. Sen. Ted Cruz of Texas and other Republicans recently introduced legislation to require the program to make determinations within 270 days, expressing outrage over the case of an officer disabled in a mass shooting who's waited years for a ruling. Similar legislation died last year. One group representing families, Concerns of Police Survivors, has expressed no such concerns about the program's management. The Missouri-based nonprofit recently received a $6-million grant to continue its long-standing partnership with the Justice Department to serve deceased officers' relatives — including providing counseling, hosting memorial events and assisting with claims. 'We are very appreciative of the PSOB and their work with survivor benefits,' spokesperson Sara Slone said. 'Not all line-of-duty deaths are the same and therefore processing times will differ.' Born in Nigeria, Nate Afolayan moved to California with relatives at age 11. He became a U.S. citizen and graduated from California State University a decade later. Lisa met Nate while they worked together at a juvenile probation office. They talked, went out for lunch and things flourished. 'The next thing you know, we were married with two kids,' she said. He decided to pursue a career in law enforcement once their second daughter was born. Lisa supported him, though she understood the danger. He spent a year working out while applying for jobs and was thrilled when the Border Patrol declared him medically fit, sent him to New Mexico for training and swore him in. Nate loved his 10 weeks at the academy, Lisa said, despite needing medical treatment several times — he was shot with pepper spray in the face and became dizzy during a water-based drill. His classmates found him to be a natural leader in elite shape and chose him to speak at graduation, they recalled in interviews with investigators. He prepared a speech with the line, 'We are all warriors that stand up and fight for what's right, just and lawful.' But on April 30, 2009 — days before the ceremony — a Border Patrol official called Lisa. Nate, 29, had fainted after his final training run and was hospitalized. It was dusty and 88 degrees in the high desert that afternoon. Agents had to complete the 1.5-mile run in 13 minutes, at an altitude of 3,400 feet. Nate had warned classmates it was too hot to wear their black academy shirts, but they voted to do so anyway, records show. Nate, 29, finished in just over 11 minutes, but then struggled to breathe and collapsed. Now Nate was being airlifted to a Lubbock, Texas, hospital for advanced treatment. Lisa booked a last-minute flight, arriving the next day. A doctor told her Nate's organs had shut down and they couldn't save his life. The hospital needed permission to end lifesaving efforts. One nurse delivered chest compressions; another held Lisa tightly as she yelled: 'That's it! I can't take it anymore!' Lisa became a single mother. The girls were 3 and 1. Her only comfort, she said, was knowing Nate died living his dream — serving his adopted country. When she first applied for benefits, Lisa included the death certificate that listed heat illness as the cause of Nate's death. The aid could help her family. She'd been studying to become a nurse but had to abandon that plan. She relied on Social Security survivors' benefits and workers' compensation while working at gyms as a trainer or receptionist and dabbling in real estate. The program had paid benefits for several similar training deaths, dating to a Massachusetts officer who suffered heat stroke and dehydration in 1988. But program staff wanted another opinion on Nate's death. They turned to outside forensic pathologist Dr. Stephen Cina. Cina concluded the autopsy overlooked the 'most significant factor': Nate carried sickle cell trait, a condition that's usually benign but has been linked to rare exertion-related deaths in military, sports and law enforcement training. Cina opined that exercising in a hot climate at high altitude triggered a crisis in which Nate's red blood cells became misshapen, depriving his body of oxygen. Cina, who stopped consulting for the benefits program in 2020 after hundreds of case reviews, declined to comment. Nate learned he had the condition, carried by up to 3 million Black Americans, after a blood test following his second daughter's birth. The former high school basketball player had never experienced any problems. A Border Patrol spokesperson declined to say whether academy leaders knew of the condition, which experts say can be managed with precautions such as staying hydrated, avoiding workouts in extreme temperatures and altitudes, and taking rest breaks. Under the benefit program's rules, Afolayan's death would need to be 'the direct and proximate result' of an injury he suffered on duty to qualify. It couldn't be the result of ordinary physical strain. The program in 2012 rejected the claim, saying the hot, dry, high climate was one factor, but not the most important. It had been more than two years since Lisa Afolayan applied and three since Nate's death. Most rejected applicants don't exercise their option to appeal to an independent hearing officer, saying they can't afford attorneys or want to get on with their lives. But Lisa Afolayan appealed with help from a Border Patrol union. A one-day hearing was held in late 2012. The hearing officer denied her claim more than a year later, saying a 'perfect storm' of factors causing the death didn't include a qualifying injury. Lisa and her daughters moved from California to Texas. They visited the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, where they saw Nate's name. Four years passed without an update on the claim. Lisa learned the union had failed to exercise its final appeal, to the program director, due to an oversight. The union didn't respond to AP emails seeking comment. Then she met Suzie Sawyer, founder and retired executive director of Concerns of Police Survivors. Sawyer had recently helped win a long battle to obtain benefits in the death of another federal agent who'd collapsed during training. 'I said, 'Lisa, this could be the fight of your life, and it could take forever,'' Sawyer recalled. ''Are you willing to do it?' She goes, 'Hell, yes.'' The two persuaded the program to hear the appeal even though the deadline had passed. They introduced a list of similar claims that had been granted and new evidence: A Tennessee medical examiner concluded the hot, dry environment and altitude were key factors causing Nate's organ-system failure. But the program was unmoved. The acting Bureau of Justice Assistance director upheld the denial in 2020. Such rulings usually aren't public, but Lisa fumed as she learned through contacts about some whose deaths qualified, including a trooper who had an allergic reaction to a bee sting, an intoxicated FBI agent who crashed his car, and another officer with sickle cell trait who died after a training run on a hot day. In 2022, Lisa thought she might have finally prevailed when a federal appeals court ordered the program to take another look at her application. A three-judge panel said the program erred by failing to consider whether the heat, humidity and altitude during the run were 'the type of unusual or out-of-the-ordinary climatic conditions that would qualify.' The judges also said it may have been illegal to rely on sickle cell trait for the denial under a federal law prohibiting employers from discrimination on the basis of genetic information. It was great timing: The girls were in high school and could use the monthly benefit of $1,530 to help pay for college. The family's Social Security and workers' compensation benefits would end soon. But the program was in no hurry. Nearly two years passed without a ruling despite inquiries from Afolayan and her lawyer. The Bureau of Justice Assistance director upheld the denial in February 2024, ruling that the climate on that day 15 years earlier wasn't 'unusually adverse.' The decision concluded the Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act didn't apply since the program wasn't Nate Afolayan's employer. Arnold & Porter, a Washington law firm now representing Lisa Afolayan pro bono, has appealed to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit. Her attorney John Elwood said the program has gotten bogged down in minutiae while losing sight of the bigger picture: that an officer died during mandatory training. He said government lawyers are fighting him just as hard, 'if not harder,' than on any other case he's handled. Months after filing their briefs, oral arguments haven't been set. 'This has been my life for 16 years,' Lisa Afolayan said. 'Sometimes I just chuckle and keep moving, because what else am I going to do?' Foley writes for the Associated Press.
Los Angeles Times
an hour ago
- Los Angeles Times
Fears of racial profiling rise as Border Patrol conducts ‘roving patrols,' detains U.S. citizens
Brian Gavidia had stepped out from working on a car at a tow yard in a Los Angeles suburb Thursday, when armed, masked men — wearing vests with 'Border Patrol' on them — pushed him up against a metal gate and demanded to know where he was born. 'I'm American, bro!' 29-year-old Gavidia pleaded, in video taken by a friend. 'What hospital were you born?' the agent barked. 'I don't know, dawg!' he said. 'East L.A., bro! I can show you: I have my f—ing Real ID.' His friend, whom Gavidia did not name, narrated the video: 'These guys, literally based off of skin color! My homie was born here!' The friend said Gavidia was being questioned 'just because of the way he looks.' In a statement Saturday, Homeland Security Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin said U.S. citizens were arrested 'because they ASSAULTED U.S. Border Patrol Agents.' (McLaughlin's statement emphasized the word 'assaulted' in all-capital and boldfaced letters.) When told by a reporter that Gavidia had not been arrested, McLaughlin clarified that Gavidia had been questioned by Border Patrol agents but there 'is no arrest record.' She said a friend of Gavidia's was arrested for assault of an officer. As immigration operations have unfolded across Southern California in the last week, lawyers and advocates say people are being targeted because of their skin color. The encounter with Gavidia and others they are tracking have raised legal questions about enforcement efforts that have swept up hundreds of immigrants and shot fear into the deeply intertwined communities they call home. Agents picking up street vendors without warrants. American citizens being grilled. Home Depot lots swept. Car washes raided. The wide-scale arrests and detainments — often in the region's largely Latino neighborhoods — contain hallmarks of racial profiling and other due process violations. 'We are seeing ICE come into our communities to do indiscriminate mass arrests of immigrants or people who appear to them to be immigrant, largely based on racial profiling,' said Eva Bitran, a lawyer at ACLU of Southern California. When asked about the accusations of racial profiling, the White House deflected. Calling the questions 'shameful regurgitations of Democrat propaganda by activists — not journalists,' White House spokeswoman Abigail Jackson chided The Times reporters Saturday for not reporting the 'real story — the American victims of illegal alien crime and radical Democrat rioters willing to do anything to keep dangerous illegal aliens in American communities.' She did not answer the question. McLaughlin said in a statement, 'Any claims that individuals have been 'targeted' by law enforcement because of their skin color are disgusting and categorically FALSE.' She said the suggestion fans the flames and puts agents in peril. 'DHS enforcement operations are highly targeted, and officers do their due diligence,' she said. 'We know who we are targeting ahead of time. If and when we do encounter individuals subject to arrest, our law enforcement is trained to ask a series of well-determined questions to determine status and removability. 'We will follow the President's direction and continue to work to get the worst of the worst criminal illegal aliens off of America's streets,' she said. The unprecedented show of force by federal agents follows orders from White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Miller, the architect of Trump's immigration plan and a Santa Monica native, to execute 3,000 arrests a day. In May, Miller reportedly directed top ICE officials to go beyond target lists and have agents make arrests at Home Depot or 7-Eleven convenience stores. U.S. Customs and Border Protection did not answer specific questions about the encounter with Gavidia and said that immigration enforcement has been 'targeted.' The agency did not explain what is meant by targeted enforcement. But a federal criminal complaint against Javier Ramirez, another of Gavidia's friends, said Border Patrol agents were conducting a 'roving patrol' in Montebello around 4:30 p.m. when they 'engaged a subject in a consensual encounter' in a parking lot on West Olympic Boulevard. The complaint noted that the parking lot is fenced and gated, but that, at the time of the interaction, the gate to the parking lot was open. The enforcement was part of a roving patrol in what John B. Mennell, a spokesman for Customs and Border Protection, said was a 'lawful immigration enforcement operation' in which agents also arrested 'without incident' an immigrant without legal status. Gavidia said he and Ramirez both rent space at the tow yard to fix cars. On video captured by a security camera at the scene, the agents pull up at the open gate in a white SUV and three agents exit the car. At least one covers his face with a mask as they walk into the property and begin looking around. Shortly after, an agent can be seen with one man in handcuffs calmly standing against the fence, while Ramirez can be heard shouting and being wrestled to the ground. Gavidia walks up on the scene from the sidewalk outside the business where agents are parked. Seeing the commotion, he turns around. An agent outside the business follows him and then another does. Gavidia, whom Mennell identified as a third person, was detained 'for investigation for interference (in an enforcement operation) and released after being confirmed to be a U.S. citizen with no outstanding warrants.' 'Video didn't show the full story,' he said in a statement. But it is unclear from the video exactly what that interference is. And Gavidia denies interfering with any operations. CBP, the agency that has played a prominent role in the recent sweeps, is also under a federal injunction in Central California after a judge found it had engaged in 'a pattern and practice' of violating people's constitutional rights in raids earlier this year. U.S. Border Patrol Sector Chief Greg Bovino, who oversaw raids that included picking people up at Home Depot and stopping them on the highway, has emerged as a key figure in L.A. He stood alongside Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem on Thursday at a news conference where Sen. Alex Padilla — the state's first Latino U.S. senator — was handcuffed, forced to the ground and briefly held after interrupting Noem with a question. 'A lot of bad people, a lot of bad things are in our country now,' Bovino said. 'That's why we're here right now, is to remove those bad people and bad things, whether illegal aliens, drugs or otherwise, we're here. We're not going away.' Bovino said hundreds of Border Patrol agents have fanned out and are on the ground in L.A. carrying out enforcement. A federal judge for the Eastern District of California ordered Bovino's agency to halt illegal stops and warrantless arrests in the district after agents detained and arrested dozens of farmworkers and laborers — including a U.S. citizen — in the Central Valley shortly before President Trump took office. The lawsuit, brought by the United Farm Workers and Central Valley residents, accused the agency of brazenly racial profiling people in a days-long enforcement. It roiled the largely agricultural area, after video circulated of agents slashing the tires of a gardener who was a citizen on his way to work, and it raised fears that those tactics could become the new norm there. The effort was 'proof of concept,' David Kim, assistant chief patrol agent under Bovino, told the San Diego investigative outfit Inewsource in March. 'Testing our capabilities, and very successful. We know we can push beyond that limit now as far as distance goes.' Bovino said at the news conference that his agents were 'not going anywhere soon.' 'You'll see us in Los Angeles. You'll continue to see us in Los Angeles,' he said. Bitran, who is working on the case in the Central Valley, said Miller's orders have 'set loose' agents 'with a mandate to capture as many people as possible,' and that 'leads to them detaining people in a way that violates the Constitution.' In Montebello, a 78% Latino suburb that shares a border with East Los Angeles, Border Patrol agents took Gavidia's identification. Although they eventually let him go, Ramirez, also American and a single father of two, wasn't so lucky. Tomas De Jesus, Ramirez's cousin and his attorney, said authorities are accusing him of 'resisting arrest, assaulting people' after agents barged into a private business, 'without a warrant, without a probable cause.' 'What is the reasonable suspicion for him to be accosted?' De Jesus questioned. 'What is the probable cause for them to be entering into a private business area? ... At this moment, it seems to me like they have a blanket authority almost to do anything.' Ramirez has been charged in a federal criminal complaint with assaulting, resisting or impeding a federal officer. Authorities allege that Ramirez was trying to conceal himself and then ran toward the exit and refused to answer questions about his identity and citizenship. They also allege he pushed and bit an agent. Montebello Mayor Salvador Melendez said he'd watched the video and called the situation 'extremely frustrating.' 'It just seems like there's no due process,' he said. 'They're going for a specific look, which is a look of our Latino community, our immigrant community. They're asking questions after. ... This is not the country that we all know it to be, where folks have individual rights and protections.' A third individual was detained on the street for investigation for interference and released after being confirmed to be a U.S. citizen with no outstanding warrants. Even before the video was looping on social media feeds, Angelica Salas — who heads one of the most well-established immigration advocacy groups in Los Angeles — said she was getting reports of 'indiscriminate' arrests and American citizens being questioned and detained. 'We have U.S. citizens who are being asked for their documents and not believed when they attest to the fact that they are U.S. citizens,' said Salas, executive director of the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights. 'They just happen to be Latino.' The Supreme Court has long held that law enforcement officers cannot detain people based on generalizations that would cast a wide net of suspicion on large segments of the law-abiding population. 'Some of the accounts I have heard suggest that they're just stopping a whole bunch of people, and then questioning them all to find out which ones might be unlawfully present,' said Ahilan Arulanantham, co-director of the Center for Immigration Law and Policy at UCLA Law School. An agent can ask a person about 'anything,' he said. But if the person declines to speak, the agent cannot detain them unless they have reasonable suspicion that the individual is unlawfully here. 'The 4th Amendment as well as governing immigration regulations do not permit immigration agents to detain somebody against their will, even for a very brief time, absent reasonable suspicion,' he said. Just being brown doesn't qualify. And being a street vendor or farmworker does not, either. A warrant to search for documents at a work site also is not enough to detain someone there. 'The agents appear to be flagrantly violating these immigration laws,' he said, 'all over Southern California.' Gavidia said the agents who questioned him in Montebello never returned his Real ID. 'I'm legal,' he said. 'I speak perfect English. I also speak perfect Spanish. I'm bilingual, but that doesn't mean that I have to be picked out, like, 'This guys seems Latino; this guy seems a little bit dirty.' 'It was the worst experience I ever felt,' Gavidia said, his voice shaking with anger as he spoke from the business Friday. 'I felt honestly like I was going to die.' On Saturday, Gavidia joined De Jesus in downtown L.A. for his first-ever protest. Now, he said, it felt personal.
