Third woman in Geminus theft case sentenced to probation in federal court
By sentencing Chermell Ellis Thursday to probation and restitution of $90,950, U.S. District Court Judge Philip Simon wanted to show that if someone accused cooperates, they too can earn a lesser sentence. Had she not cooperated as she did, it would've been a different story, he said during her sentencing hearing in U.S. District Court in Hammond.
'Had you not cooperated, I'd have sent you to jail,' Simon said. 'But you responded the best way you could, and people will be rewarded if they do that.'
In the plea deal she accepted in November, Ellis pleaded guilty to one count of wire fraud and was facing 8 to 14 months in prison, with 1 to 3 years supervised release, according to court documents.
Ellis, in her defense, said that getting involved with that scheme was the 'deepest regret of her life.'
'I have no excuse, and I take full responsibility,' a visibly shaken Ellis said. 'I put my daughter in a position she never deserved to be in.'
Ellis — along with Valencia Franklin and Gloria White, who were sentenced last month for their roles — was accused of misappropriating $636,000 in Emergency Rental Assistance funds destined to help renters hang on to their residences during the pandemic by creating false landlords to fraudulently request money from the program, according to an independent audit by an Indianapolis accounting firm.
Geminus Corp. discovered discrepancies in its records, which led to finding out about the potential fraud in July 2022, according to Bill Trowbridge, president and CEO of Geminus and its umbrella organization, Regional Care Group.
The nonprofit service agency based in Merrillville immediately contacted the U.S. Department of the Treasury and fired Franklin, as well as alerted the accounting firm that does its annual audit. The audit, released in January 2023, covered fiscal years ending in June 2021 and 2022. The $636,000 figure is what Geminus 'had strong suspicions' was fraudulent and reported to the feds and the agency's auditors, Trowbridge has said.
Geminus received $40 million in federal funding for the Emergency Rental Assistance program as a pass-through agency, distributing the money throughout Lake County during the pandemic.
Franklin was sentenced to two years and $352,300 in restitution for her part, while White was given 24 months' probation and $177,800 in restitution, the Post-Tribune previously reported. Each woman's restitution amount will be given to Geminus as a joint and several liability, Simon said.
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Chicago Tribune
2 days ago
- Chicago Tribune
Video of Merrillville woman's arrest by Lake County Sheriff's Department shows excessive force before miscarriage, lawyer says
A Merrillville woman's lawyer said recently released bodycam footage backs up her accusations that Lake County Sheriff's deputies forcibly pulled her from a vehicle during an arrest despite knowing she was pregnant. Three months later, she had a miscarriage. I'm '(expletive) pregnant,' Shikeia Randolph, 31, yells just before two officers pull her from a red Chevrolet Trailblazer, according to video obtained by the Post-Tribune through a public records request. A federal lawsuit accusing the officers of excessive force was filed two months ago in the U.S. District Court in Hammond. It alleges that a 3:24 a.m. traffic stop on June 5, 2023 was 'pretextual' — for an issue with a license plate cover, then a school truancy warrant — and quickly spiraled out of control. The video from an officer's dashboard camera appears to show, as she is arrested, the two officers turn her on her stomach as one pins her down to handcuff her hands behind her back. Randolph previously told the Post-Tribune she had just stopped for milk at a 24-hour gas station in Gary near Ridge Road and Grant Street with her four kids in the vehicle. She was supposed to drop them off at her mother's house, then head to her early shift as a receptionist at the Gary Housing Authority. Officer Peter Hamady, who pulled her over, is named with the sheriff's department in the lawsuit. His lawyer Casey McCloskey declined comment. In a federal filing on Aug. 7, McCloskey formally denied the accusations against Hamady, saying in part that his actions were 'objectively reasonable' and protected by 'qualified immunity.' Some of Randolph's claims could fall outside of a two-year statute of limitations, he wrote. McCloskey argued because Randolph refused to get out of her SUV, she forced cops to go after her, according to court documents. She disputed this, in interviews with the Post-Tribune. On the way to booking, Randolph tells Hamady the truancy case in Merrillville Town Court was for taking her daughter repeatedly to school a little late when she was in pain from just having another baby, according to footage recorded inside Hamady's police car. He appears to soften. 'I didn't know they had warrants for that,' he said in the footage. In an interview, Matthew Custardo, Randolph's lawyer in the federal lawsuit, argued the use of force was unjustified, even if she was arguing with the cops. 'She was confused why she was being pulled over,' he said. 'She's scared. She has every reason to be a little concerned about what's going on. She's standing up for herself, certainly.' According to the nearly 40-minute bodycam video, police officers tell her to call someone to pick up the kids, so they don't have to call child protective services. Originally, Randolph said she thought it might have been a warrant for an old driving while suspended case. 'Call CPS for what?' she responds in the video. 'A warrant for a suspended license?' 'It's not for that,' Hamady tells her in the footage. After she asks again, he says it's for truancy. 'Listen, you have a warrant,' Hamady said in the video. 'You're lucky I don't have you cuffed out of the car right now. You wanna go that route?' In the video, she accuses Hamady of pulling out of a nearby parking lot before she passed him. 'Ma'am, I was behind you,' he responded in the footage. At least three other officers are in view. 'I'm taking you to court,' she the phone, Randolph tells her mother the '(expletive) police' pulled her over as she asked her to get her kids, according to the video. She asks officers to wait until her mother arrives. 'I guess they are going to take me to jail,' she said over the phone in the footage. Randolph said in a previous interview with the Post-Tribune that the encounter appeared to escalate when she rolled up her window slightly to hear what her mom was saying. The arrest happens within about 12 minutes into the footage. As officers open her car door and grab her arm, Randolph's children can be heard crying in the back seat. 'This is your last warning,' one of the officers said in the video. 'We don't want your kids to see this.' 'You already freaked my kids out,' she said. 'Get out of the (expletive) car,' one officer stated in the footage. I'm '(expletive) pregnant,' she yells just before two officers pull her from the vehicle after she tried to cling to the steering wheel in the video. 'Let me go! Get off of me! Please get off of me! Somebody help me!' After she is handcuffed on the ground, a police dog is seen in the background of the dashboard camera footage. Randolph's white shoes are scattered nearby. 'I'm trying to help you out here,' one officer tells her in the video. Randolph was charged with resisting law enforcement two months later. Hamady's account in court documents makes no mention of her pregnancy. During the ride to booking at the Lake County Jail, they talk at length about her decision to have a fifth child, according to footage inside the police car. Her fiancé wanted one last child, she said. When Hamady asks how far along she is on the video, she responds she's nearly 12 weeks pregnant. 'Well, congrats to you,' he said in the video. Hamady stated in the footage that her bond should be $400. It's 'not Friday, so it's a good thing,' he tells her in the video. 'I'll make sure they keep you updated.' He asks if she's comfortable as late-'90s era music plays over the radio, the footage shows, before they chat about where she is planning to get married. Do you 'want the window open back there, or are you good?' he asks in the video. Since police insisted on towing her red Chevrolet Trailblazer, Randolph's mother had to take four kids back in a cramped sedan, a situation that was not likely 'legally safe,' Custardo said. Randolph's lawsuit alleged her arrest suggested a 'broader pattern' in the Lake County Sheriff's Department, including 'inadequate training,' 'insufficient supervision' and a 'failure to implement effective accountability measures,' according to court documents. The Lake County Sheriff's Department refused to answer questions related to the incident, including what kind of de-escalation training its officers receive at various stages in their careers. Hamady joined the department in 2022, according to court filings. Sheriff Oscar Martinez Jr. declined comment through a spokeswoman, who said he could not discuss pending litigation. Watching the video with her mother was 'very emotional,' Randolph said in an Aug. 5 interview, especially hearing her kids crying in the video's background. She refused to let her 12-year-old daughter view it. 'I feel better now that I've seen it,' Randolph said. 'It matches the exact story I've been telling for so long.' There's been some 'expected' backlash online after a pair of articles in local newspapers, Randolph said. She was there trying to protect herself and her Williams, her criminal public defender, said she did remember parts of the case in retrospect, and confirmed she tried to get the bodycam from the Lake County Sheriff's Department 'multiple times' since the case was filed in August 2023. Court filings show one discovery request for the body cam was made as late as October 2024. The only reason not to turn it over was if they 'didn't want me to see something,' she said. Randolph was tired of repeatedly coming to court for a slow-moving case, Williams said. She told her client that she could fight to get the bodycam footage, or take a pretrial diversion to get rid of the case in a year. 'It's common to get slow discovery (evidence) when you're requesting bodycams,' Williams said, adding that some police departments are worse than others, but she's had 'good experience' with the sheriff's department in the past. Randolph's case is scheduled for a pretrial diversion hearing on Aug. 15. However, an automatic court filing on Aug. 11 appears to show there may be a snag. Court filings show Randolph, her fiancé and sister were charged June 26 with resisting law enforcement in Hobart. Hobart Police Cpl. Christopher Sipes wrote that Randolph and her fiancé got his attention around 1:30 a.m. May 25 on Main Street for ignoring a 'pedestrian signal.' , Randolph said they were out that night celebrating her fiancé's birthday. As End Zone let out across the street, a crowd, including the half-dozen in her group, were migrating to the other bar, Randolph said. At least two officers were there, as someone behind them yelled something about the guy handcuffed on the ground getting arrested nearby. The officer thought her fiancé said something, she said. Sipes wrote he and the other officer followed them into Cagney's. 'Bulls jersey, stop right there,' the other officer said to Randolph's fiancé, according to court records. As they got to the bar, Randolph said an officer grabbed her arm from behind. According to court documents, when the officer asked for identification, the couple 'ignored' him and said they 'didn't do anything.' Randolph 'stepped in front' of officers to block them from her fiance. As the cops went to arrest them just inside the bar's entrance, the crowd 'became aggressive,' the officer wrote. During a 'struggle' as she was being handcuffed, Randolph's black strapless top fell down, exposing her breasts, records state. Randolph said in an interview she tried to turn away for some privacy, because there were a 'million people standing around.' Once she stood up, an officer wrote, he pulled her top back up, records state. She denied she got in their way or refused to give her identification card. The officer was bigger than her, and it didn't make sense that she could overpower him. The whole incident was 'very unfortunate,' her lawyer Patrick Young said Aug. 7, adding he's working with prosecutors to resolve the case.
New York Post
3 days ago
- New York Post
Rehab can keep you out of jail — but become a prison itself
Chris Koon didn't read the fine print. Sitting in the Cenikor Baton Rouge rehab center's intake office in 2015, flanked by his mom and grandmother, he signed where told. 'A lot of it read like legalese,' writes Shoshana Walter in 'Rehab: An American Scandal' (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 12). 'Incomprehensible but also innocuous, like something you might see before downloading an app on your phone.' Koon felt lucky. He wasn't going to prison. Just days earlier, he'd been arrested for meth possession. The alternative to five years in state prison? A brutal two-year Cenikor inpatient program. Koon took the deal. In signing the intake documents, he agreed to 'receive no monetary compensation' for work he did, with wages going 'directly back to the Foundation.' He signed away his right to workers' compensation if injured. He forfeited his food stamps, disability payments and any other government assistance. And he agreed to 'adopt appropriate morals and values as promoted by the program.' Koon's story isn't an outlier — it's a glimpse into what Walter calls 'America's other drug crisis.' While overdoses and opioid deaths dominate headlines, far less attention goes to the 'profit-hungry, under-regulated, and all too often deadly rehab industry,' writes Walter. Across the country, thousands of treatment programs are propped up by federal policies and rooted in a distinctly American blend of punishment and personal responsibility. People were 'lured to rehab with the promise of a cure for what ailed them,' Walter writes, 'only to repeatedly falter and fail inside a system that treated them like dollar signs.' The idea hard labor can cure someone isn't new. After the Civil War, US slavery was abolished except as punishment for a crime. That loophole became the foundation for a forced-labor system that conveyed newly freed black people into prisons and chain gangs. Over time, prison officials began marketing this arrangement as 'rehabilitation.' As Walter writes, this legacy has been repackaged for the modern drug crisis. The Affordable Care Act promised expanded treatment access through Medicaid. But the rehab industry that exploded in response was lightly regulated, profit-driven and increasingly dangerous. The result: thousands of people like Chris Koon, lured into treatment by courts, cops or family members, only to find themselves stuck in a system that looked less like therapy and more like punishment. They include women like April Lee, a black woman from Philadelphia. Despite growing up in addiction's long shadow — her mother died from AIDS when Lee was just a teenager, after years of selling sex to support a crack habit — Lee didn't start using drugs herself until after having her second child, when a doctor prescribed her Percocet for back pain. That opened the door to addiction. Child-welfare authorities eventually took her kids. Fellow users nicknamed her 'Mom' and 'Doc' for her uncanny ability to find usable veins, no matter how damaged. April Lee returned to her recovery house — as an unpaid house monitor. April Lee / ACLU She entered recovery in 2016. Every morning at 6, 18 women gathered in the dining room of one of two overcrowded houses to read from the Bible. Lee stayed 10 months. With nowhere else to go, she returned — this time as a house monitor, working without pay in exchange for a bed. 'She was still early into recovery, and she felt stressed by the intensity of the job,' Walter writes. 'On top of that, she wasn't getting a paycheck, so she couldn't save up money to leave.' 'Don't really know how to feel right now,' Lee wrote in her journal. 'The lady I work for — for free, mind you — wont me to watch over women witch mean I have to stay in every night.' She felt physically and emotionally trapped. 'I wanted to snap this morning. Miss my children so much.' Like so many others, Lee found herself stuck in the recovery-house loop — forced to work, unable to leave and earning nothing. She helped with chores, mainly cooking and cleaning. Residents' food stamps stocked the kitchen. Lee loved to cook, and she made comfort food for the house: mac and cheese, fried chicken, beef stew. But all the warmth she gave others couldn't buy her a way out. For others, like Koon, it was about more than just forced labor. During his first 30 days at Cenikor, the other patients policed each other. If one person broke a rule, the entire group might be punished with a 'fire drill' in the middle of the night. 'If anyone stepped out of line or did something wrong during the drill, they'd have to stay awake even longer,' Walter writes. Discipline was obsessive. In his first month, Koon sat in a classroom with about 30 other residents, most sent by courts like he was, reciting rules out loud, line by line. There were more than 100. 'He could get in trouble for not having a pen, not wearing a belt, for an untied shoelace, for leaving a book on the table, for his shirt coming untucked,' Walter details. Koon learned the punishment system fast. A common one was 'the verbal chair,' in which any participant could order him to sit, arms locked and knees at a 90-degree angle, and stare silently at the wall while others screamed at him. 'Go have a seat in the verbal chair. Think about having your shirt untucked,' they'd say. And Koon, like everyone else, was expected to respond, 'Thank you.' There were others. 'Mirror therapy,' where he'd stand and yell his failings at himself in the mirror. 'The dishpan,' where he'd be dressed in a neon-green shirt, scrubbing floors and dishes while loudly reciting the Cenikor philosophy, 'a paragraph-long diatribe about self-change,' Walter writes. And the dreaded 'verbal haircut,' when another resident, sometimes even a staff member, would berate him as part of his treatment. Dressed up as a therapeutic community, Koon thought instead, 'This is like a cult.' Walter believes he wasn't far off. Everyone was required to tattle. Koon had to turn in weekly at least 10 'pull-ups' — written reports detailing rule infractions committed by fellow residents. If he didn't, he could lose points and with them privileges like phone calls, family visits or permission to grow a mustache. Confrontations were public and ritualized: Residents would sit in a circle around one or two people forced to listen as everyone else denounced them. 'They took turns confronting that person, professing their faults and errors, while the person was permitted only to say 'thank you,'' Walter writes. Staff called it 'The Game.' He saw grown men cry. He heard women called bitches and sluts. He realized many employees were former participants enforcing the system that once broke them. Not everyone saw a problem. Many in the legal system embraced tough-love rehab programs, especially judges looking for alternatives to jail. One of Cenikor's biggest champions was Judge Larry Gist, who ran one of the first drug courts, in Jefferson County, Texas, in the 1990s. 'The vast majority of folks that I deal with are basically bottom-feeders,' Gist told the author. 'They've been losers since the day they were born.' Cenikor's extreme model was ideal for 'the right people,' he believed. Cenikor rewarded such loyalty, giving judges and lawmakers steak dinners served by participants and annual awards banquets, complete with gleaming, diamond-shaped trophies. Gist 'proudly displayed his' in 'his chambers, where he liked to host his happy hours with prosecutors and defense attorneys.' Koon was booted out of Cenikor after just two years, for faking a urine sample and contracting a contagious staph infection, but managed to stay sober on his own. He proposed to his childhood sweetheart, Paige, moving in with her two daughters, and finding the stability he'd been chasing for years. He went back to school to learn welding, and the daily rhythms of family life kept him grounded. 'He hasn't taken a drug recreationally for eight years,' Walter writes. Lee's path out took longer, and her recovery was, as Walter writes, 'in some ways a stroke of luck.' She left the house after landing a job at a law firm that helped women reunite with their children in foster care — a world away from the nights she'd once spent tricking at the Blue Moon Hotel but one that barely covered her bills and pushed her just over the poverty line, cutting off assistance. She earned her GED, took online college courses, regained custody of her kids and bought her own home by 2021. 'And yet many days she felt she was teetering on the edge, one crisis or unpaid bill away from making a terrible mistake,' Walter writes. That year, she returned to Kensington, where her addiction had once thrived, bringing fresh food and water to people still living on the streets. As for Cenikor, its time in the shadows ended, at least temporarily. Investigators found evidence of exploitation: residents forced to work without pay, unsafe housing conditions, staff-client relationships, even overdoses inside the facilities. The state of Texas fined Cenikor more than $1.4 million in 2019, but the agency struck a settlement, and it continued to operate. Koon and Lee don't represent everyone who's experienced addiction, treatment or recovery. But they do reflect a system that often promises far more than it delivers. 'When rehab works, it can save lives,' Walter writes. 'It can mend families and be among the most redemptive narrative arcs in a person's life.' But sometimes, rehab not only fails to help people, it actively harms them, recycling them through a gauntlet of relapse, shame and risk: 'Despite the rehab industry's many claims, there is no magical cure for addiction.'
The Hill
4 days ago
- The Hill
New Orleans mayor indicted on federal corruption charges
New Orleans Mayor Latoya Cantrell (D) was indicted on federal charges Friday after an alleged affair with a local police officer. Cantrell, the city's first female mayor, is accused of engaging in a romantic relationship with Jeffrey Paul Vappie II, a police officer in the executive protection unit. Court documents allege she orchestrated out-of-state trips to maximize their opportunities to engage in 'personal activities' that cost the City of New Orleans over $70,000 in addition to travel expenses for Cantrell. Prosecutors say both Cantrell and Vappie were warned about misconduct in 2022. The Democratic mayor is in her final term as the city's leader and is now charged with making false statements and false declarations before a grand jury, conspiracy to obstruct justice and conspiracy to commit wire fraud. 'Aware their conduct violated rules, policies, and criminal laws, Cantrell and Vappir attempted to distract and impede inquiries and investigations, including a federal grand jury investigation, about the true nature and circumstances of their relationship and their scheme to defraud,' the indictment reads. 'They did this by using an encrypted messaging platform, intimidating and punishing subordinates, lying to colleagues and advisors, making false public pronouncements, harassing a o colleagues and advisors, making false public pronouncements, harassing a private individual who took pictures of them in public together, deleting electronic evidence, making false statements to federal law enforcement agents, authoring an affidavit signed under oath and penalty of perjury containing false information, and testifying falsely while under oath before a federal grand jury,' it continues. Cantrell will face charges in the U.S. District Court's Eastern District of Louisiana. This is a sad day for the people of New Orleans,' said Monet Brignac, a spokesperson for City Council President JP Morrell told The Associated Press. 'Our thoughts and prayers are with the Cantrell family as they navigate through this difficult time.' Cantrell previously alleged she was targeted as a Black woman and faced 'very disrespectful, insulting, in some cases kind of unimaginable' treatment, according to the AP.
