'He wanted her dead': Jury hears graphic testimony in trial of teacher accused of sex abuse
WEST PALM BEACH — A former SouthTech Academy student walked into court wearing the high heels her teacher once told her not to. He preferred pigtails, no makeup and flats — anything that didn't make her look like a woman, she said.
Now 17, she pointed to Damian Conti, the former AP English teacher who she says sexually assaulted her "almost every day."
Conti, 37, is on trial for four counts of unlawful sex between a student and teacher and one of attempted assisted suicide. Prosecutors say he groomed and assaulted the girl over the course of the 2023–24 school year, then drove her to hang herself after his crimes were exposed.
Palm Beach County sheriff's deputies found the teen hanging from a noose after school officials discovered inappropriate messages between the teacher and student. Deputies cut the rope and resuscitated her before taking her to the pediatric intensive care unit of St. Mary's Medical Center in West Palm Beach, where she slowly recovered.
"He wanted her dead," Assistant State Attorney Alexa Ruggiero said June 24. "You'll see that when he's given the good news of her being alive still, you'll see and hear just how disappointed he is."'
Ruggiero told jurors that Conti exploited his position of trust, slowly escalating the relationship from school emails to explicit Instagram messages and secret meetings for sex in secluded parking lots off campus. The prosecutor said he isolated his student from her friends and family, showered her with gifts and sent texts so explicit the jurors cringed.
Conti's lead attorney, Assistant Public Defender Lily Boehmer, disagreed. She said the teacher had an inappropriate emotional connection with his student but never a sexual one.
They said "I love you," she said. They talked every day. They went to the beach and drew hearts in the sand. They bought one another coffee, ran errands together, sent explicit messages to each other and "even kissed."
"They pushed the boundary," Boehmer said. "But they never crossed it."
She argued that the inappropriate messages discovered on the girl's phone caused authorities to jump to the wrong conclusion. As for why Conti admitted to sexually abusing the girl during his arrest, Boehmer said he was "willing to do and say anything" to protect the girl.
Prosecutors said the opposite was true. They pointed to surveillance-camera footage of Conti accompanying the girl through a Home Depot near Lake Worth Beach where she bought enough rope to end both of their lives. The girl testified that she planned for the two of them to drive to a secluded area to hang themselves, though Conti told her repeatedly not to do it.
Conti "said he didn't want to get charged with my murder," the girl testified. After she bought the rope anyway, she said he told her he wanted to go home to give his children a final goodbye. He remained in the Home Depot parking lot while she drove away with the rope.
"I remember putting my head through the noose. I remember the rope holding me from the ground," she said. "I was dangling from the ground. I was losing oxygen."
The last thing she said she remembers were her silent prayers for forgiveness.
The girl testified from 11:30 a.m. until nearly 3 p.m., with a one-hour break in the middle, before prosecutors concluded their direct examination.
Boehmer began her cross examination by alerting jurors to an ongoing civil lawsuit between the teen's family and SouthTech Academy. In the suit, the girl's parents accuse school administrators of turning a blind eye to Conti's conduct toward their daughter.
"If you win the lawsuit, it's your understanding that you and your family will get a monetary gain?" Boehmer said. "Specifically, you and your family are asking for upwards of $75,000 in damages?"
The teen said yes. Boehmer tried several times to ask the girl whether the outcome of Conti's criminal trial would affect the outcome of the civil lawsuit, but Circuit Judge Howard Coates struck the question each time as irrelevant.
Boehmer moved on. She instead asked the teen to confirm whether she was the first to share her cellphone number with Conti, whether she was the first to kiss him on the cheek, whether she called Conti "Baby," "Sweet angel," "Sweet pea" and "Babe" in her messages to him.
The girl agreed.
This was a "relationship without a label," Boehmer said. She used that word — relationship — easily, though it had caused prosecutors to apologize each time they said it before her.
"He never threatened you to have sex?" Boehmer asked. "He never physically pinned you down to force himself upon you? He never bribed you to have sex?"
The girl said no to each.
Coates paused the cross examination shortly before 4 p.m. and sent the jury home for the day. The girl will return to the witness stand when the trial resumes June 26.
Hannah Phillips is a journalist covering public safety and criminal justice at The Palm Beach Post. You can reach her at hphillips@pbpost.com.
This article originally appeared on Palm Beach Post: SouthTech Academy student describes sex abuse by teacher Damian Conti

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USA Today
2 hours ago
- USA Today
Deported from US, these social media influencers are now monetizing their misfortune
More than 70,000 Mexicans were deported from the US in the first six months of the year. Now, they're (re)building lives south of the border. Deported and alone, Annie Garcia landed in Mexico with $40 in her pocket, a criminal record in the United States behind her and an unknown future ahead in a country she barely remembered. Fast forward to the present, to a video shared with her more than half-a-million social media followers in August. Her hair blows in the wind as she speeds on a boat through an emerald sea. She tagged the clip: #LifeAfterDeportation. Expelled from the United States, young Mexican immigrants like Garcia, 35, are documenting the aftermath of their deportation online. Their videos – raw grief over what they lost in America, surprise and gratitude for what they've found in Mexico – are rapidly gaining them tens of thousands of followers. At least a dozen of these deportees-turned-influencers, Garcia included, have started over in Mexico's west coast beach gem, Puerto Vallarta. 'If there's one thing I wish my content could embody it's how much life there is on this side of the border," Garcia wrote June 15 on Instagram. "Our countries aren't what they were 20 or 30 years ago when our parents left." Returning to an unfamiliar 'home' More than 70,000 Mexican nationals were deported from the United States to Mexico in the first six months of 2025, according to Mexico's Interior Ministry. That's down from the more than 102,000 deported during the same six-month period in 2024, when people were being deported after crossing the border. Now, the people being deported are more likely to have built lives and families in the United States. With President Donald Trump's aggressive mass deportation campaign underway, Francisco Hernández-Corona feared being detained. So he self-deported to Mexico, accompanied by his husband. He started vlogging. The 30-something Harvard graduate and former Dreamer had been taken to the United States illegally as a boy, he explained on TikTok. Multiple attempts to legalize his status in the United States failed. In June, he posted his migration – and self-deportation – stories online. Between photos of golden sunsets and mouthwatering tacos, he posted in July: "Self-deporting isn't always freedom and joy and new adventures. Sometimes it's pain and nostalgia and anger and sadness. Sometimes you just miss the home that was." 'Life in the pueblo is not easy' Mexico remains a country of extremes, where stunning vistas and limitless wealth can be found in big cities and beach resorts, while hardship and poverty often overwhelm smaller communities. Olga Mijangos was deported from Las Vegas in on Christmas Eve 2024, two years after being charged with a DUI. She returned to the Oaxaca state pueblo she had left when she was 5. Mijangos, 33, has tattoos on her neck, stylized brows and long lashes – all part of her Vegas style. Back in her hometown, she began posting videos of goats being herded through the streets; the community rodeo; the traditional foods she began cooking. She posted videos from her first job: harvesting and cleaning cucumbers, earning 300 pesos a day, or $15. "I clearly understand why my mother decided to take us when we were little. Life in the pueblo is not easy," she said in a video of the cucumber harvest. "There is hard-living. There is poverty." Struggling to make ends meet for her family, including two children with her in Mexico and one in the United States, she moved to Puerto Vallarta where she met Garcia and Hernández-Corona. They began forming an in-real-life community of deportees-turned-influencers and others who left the U.S. They meet up for dinner at least once a month, and they create content. In their videos, they're having fun, drinks, laughs. But they're also celebrating what binds them to each other and to their parents' migration stories before them: their capacity for reinvention, and their resilience. "I'm very proud to be Mexican, and I'm learning to love a country I didn't get to grow up in, but I shouldn't have had to leave the home I knew to find peace and freedom," said Hernández-Corona, a clinical psychologist, in a July post on TikTok. "This isn't a blessing. It's resilience." Spanish skills, savings and support all matter A lot of their content has the draw of a classic American up-by-their-bootstraps success story, with a modern social media twist: from hardship to sponsorship. But the reality is that deportees' experience of building a life in Mexico can vary dramatically, depending on their earning capacity, language and cultural skills, and other factors, said Israel Ibarra González, a professor of migration studies at Mexico's Colegio de la Frontera Norte university. Deportees with savings in U.S. dollars and a college degree, those who speak Spanish and have supportive relatives in Mexico, may have an easier time than those who don't, he said. Others may face life-threatening risks upon their return, from the violence of organized crime to political persecution or death threats. "However much violence they've lived with in the United States, it's not the same as going back to a war zone," Ibarra González said, referring to certain Mexican states where drug cartels are actively battling for territorial control. Wherever they land – with the exception of some cosmopolitan cities – deported Mexicans have faced local prejudices, too. They've often been viewed as criminals, or their deportations as a failure. "Did I feel a lot of judgment? Absolutely," Mijangos said of her return to Oaxaca. "Even though it's my roots, I basically came from a different world. I have tattoos. I lived my life a certain way that they don't. I could feel people talking." But friends back home in Vegas, and new friends in Mexico, started encouraging her to share her deportation journey. It took her a few weeks to work up the courage. She posted a video of sending her U.S. citizen son to a Mexican school. It racked up nearly 14 million views and 2 million "likes" on TikTok, she said. Suddenly, TikTok was asking if she wanted to join the app's content creators rewards program. 'Your criminal record doesn't follow you' By taking their stories online, deported content creators say they are dismantling longstanding taboos around deportation in Mexico, shining a light on their experiences as Mexicans who didn't grow up in Mexico, and on their past mistakes. Garcia speaks openly on her social media about the financial crimes she committed in her 20s, for which she was charged and convicted, and that ultimately led to her deportation. She migrated to the United States when she was 4 years old, "out of necessity," she said. Her mother married an American citizen in Salt Lake City, Utah, and she and her mother both became legal permanent residents. But when Garcia began acting out as a child, the state intervened. "I was taken from my mother at the age of 12 because I had behavioral issues," she told USA TODAY. "I was separated from my family, and I grew up with other juveniles with behavior (problems)." As a young single mother, she would steal from her employers when she couldn't pay the bills, she said. In Mexico she found a clean slate. "Your criminal record doesn't follow you," once you've paid your debt to society in the United States, Garcia tells her followers. "You can pursue higher education. Any debts you had in the U.S. do not follow you here." As Trump's immigration crackdown widens, Mexico's President Claudia Sheinbaum Pardo has been publicly offering moral support to Mexicans facing deportation. She has called them "heroes and heroines" who "have contributed to the United States their entire lives." "We're going to keep defending our brothers and sisters there," she said in a June 25 news conference. 'Maybe … things will change' Garcia's social media accounts have grown so popular that she's earning a living, in part, from content creation. She is doing research on reintegration after deportation for an American university. And she has "tunnel vision," she said, on completing a law degree in Mexico. The pain of her deportation, and the losses it brought with it, are mostly in the past. Except when she catches news of the immigration raids in the United States. The memories of her detention, and her separation from her five children, including an infant, remain fresh. It took Garcia more than a year after her 2017 deportation to win custody of her children, to bring them to Mexico. "It's very, very triggering to me to see what's going on up there," she said. "It's a bittersweet feeling. I feel safe. I feel relief. We're here. It doesn't affect us any more. But it feels heartbreaking to see other families living through it. "When I first started sharing my story my idea was, 'Maybe if I talk about this, things will change'" in the United States, she said. She kept at it, despite facing hate and trolls online. She kept posting, even after losing two jobs in Mexico for openly discussing her deportation and criminal past on social media. She kept sharing, thinking, she said: "This is what is going to change things one day: us putting our stories out there."


San Francisco Chronicle
8 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
He earned a small town's trust. He owed $95 million in what authorities say was a Ponzi scheme
HAMILTON, N.Y. (AP) — For decades, Miles 'Burt' Marshall was the man you went to see in a stretch of upstate New York if you had some money to invest but wanted to keep it local. Working from an office in the charming village of Hamilton, down the road from Colgate University, Marshall prepared taxes and sold insurance. He also took money for what was sometimes called the '8% Fund,' which guaranteed that much in annual interest no matter what happened with the financial markets. His clients spread the word to family and friends. Have a retirement nest egg? Let Burt handle it. He'll invest it in local rental properties and your money will grow faster than in a bank. Marshall was friendly and folksy. He gave away gift bags with maple syrup, pickles and local honey in jars labeled with cute sayings like, 'Don't be a sap. For proper insurance coverage call Miles B. Marshall." 'He would tell you about all the other people that invest. Churches invest. Fire companies invest. Doctors invest,' said one client, Christine Corrigan. 'So you'd think, 'Well, they're smart people. They wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't okay to do ... Why are you going to be the suspicious one?' Then it all came crashing down. Marshall owed almost 1,000 people and organizations about $95 million in principal and interest when he filed for bankruptcy protection two years ago, according to the trustee's filings. This summer, the 73-year-old businessman was indicted on charges that his investment business was a Ponzi scheme. He could face prison time if convicted. Marshall's lawyers declined to comment. Total losses by Marshall's investors fall short of the multibillion-dollar Ponzi scheme masterminded by Bernie Madoff. But they loom large in the small, college town of about 6,400 people and its largely rural surrounding area. Many investors were Colgate professors, laborers, office workers or retirees. Some lost their life's savings of tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars. Corrigan and her husband, who own a restaurant 30 miles (48 kilometers) east, were owed about $1.5 million. Now they're wondering how someone who seemed so reliable, who held annual parties for his clients and even called them on their birthdays could betray their trust. 'You look at life differently after this happens. It's like, 'Who do you trust?'' said Dennis Sullivan, who was owed about $40,000. 'It's sad because of what he's done to the area.' A reliable local businessman Marshall and his wife lived in a brick Victorian, blocks from his office. Aside from insurance and tax preparation, he rented more than 100 properties and ran a self-storage business and a print shop. His parents had run an insurance and realty business in the area and the Marshall name was respected locally. Though he quit college, he was a federally enrolled tax professional. To many in the area, he seemed knowledgeable about money and kept a neat office. 'He had French doors and a beautiful carpet and a big desk and he just looked like he was prosperous and reliable," Corrigan said. Marshall began taking money from people to buy and maintain rental properties in the 1980s. People got back promissory notes — slips of paper with the dollar amount written in. Withdrawals could be made with 30 days' notice. People could choose to receive regular interest payments. Participants saw the transactions as investments. Marshall has called them loans. For many years, Marshall made good on his promises to pay interest and process withdrawals. More people took part as word spread. Sullivan recalls how his parents gave Marshall money, then he did, then his fiancee, then his fiancee's daughter, then his son, and even his snowmobile club. 'Everybody gets snowballed into it,' Sullivan said. A number of investors lived in other states, but had connections to the area. The promise of 8% returns was unremarkable in the '80s, a time of higher interest rates. But it stood out later as rates dropped. Marshall told a bankruptcy proceeding that he assumed appreciation on his real estate would more than cover the debts. 'That's obviously false now," he said, according to filings, "but that's what I always thought.' The money stopped flowing by 2023. Marshall filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection that April, declaring more than $90 million in liabilities and $21.5 million in assets, most of it in real estate. He explained in a filing that he had been been hospitalized for a 'serious heart condition' that required two surgeries, costing him $600,000. As news of his illness spread, there was a run on note holders asking for their money back. The bankruptcy trustee, Fred Stevens, blamed Marshall's insolvency on incompetent business practices and borrowing from people at above-market rates. The trustee contended that by 2011, Marshall was using new investment money to pay off previous investors, the hallmark of a Ponzi scheme. Prosecutors claim Marshall falsely represented the profitability of his real estate business and had his staff generate "transaction summaries' with bogus information about account balances and earned interest. Money was funneled into his other businesses and he spent hundreds of thousands of investors' dollars on personal expenses, including airline travel, meals out, groceries and yoga studios, according to prosecutors. Marshall's clients feel betrayed. 'We left it there so that it would accumulate. Well, it accumulated in his pocket,' Barbara Baltusnik said of her investment. The ripple effects of multimillion-dollar losses Marshall pleaded not guilty in June to charges of grand larceny and securities fraud. He's accused of stealing more than $50 million. Marshall's home and properties were sold as part of bankruptcy proceedings, which continue. People who gave Marshall their money stand to recoup around 5.4 cents on the dollar from the asset sales. Potential claims against financial institutions are being pursued, according to the trustee. Baltusnik said she and her husband were owed hundreds of thousands of dollars and now she wonders how she will pay doctors' bills. Sullivan's mother moved in with him after losing her investment. In Epworth, Georgia, retiree Carolyn Call will never see money she hoped would help augment her Social Security payments. She found out about Marshall though an uncle who lived in upstate New York. 'I'm just able to pay my bills and keep going," she said. "Nothing extravagant. No trips. Can't do anything hardly for the grandkids.'

10 hours ago
Guatemalan prison guards freed after being held hostage by gang members
GUATEMALA CITY -- GUATEMALA CITY (AP) — Guatemalan authorities on Saturday freed nine prison guards who had been held hostage since Thursday by rioting inmates in Guatemala City, an official said. Members of Guatemala's two largest gangs — Barrio 18 and Mara Salvatrucha — began rioting Tuesday in two prisons, demanding the return of 10 leaders who had been transferred to another facility and placed in solitary confinement. José Portillo, Deputy Minister of Security, told The Associated Press that the guards released Saturday had been held by members of Mara Salvatrucha. One prison official died Friday after being shot, authorities said, without providing further details. Local media reported the shooting occurred at one of the prisons involved in the riots. Earlier this year, U.S. President Donald Trump designated Mara Salvatrucha as a terrorist organization, placing it on a list of criminal groups that he said operate in the region and threaten public safety across the hemisphere. In another similar incident, anti-kidnapping teams freed 11 guards on Wednesday who were also held hostage by gang members in two Guatemalan prisons.