Today in History: April 13, Tiger Woods wins first Masters by record margin
In 1873, members of the pro-white, paramilitary White League attacked Black state militia members defending a courthouse in Colfax, La. Three white men and as many as 150 Black men were killed in what is known as the Colfax Massacre, one of the worst acts of Reconstruction-era violence.
In 1943, President Franklin D. Roosevelt dedicated the Jefferson Memorial in Washington on the 200th anniversary of his birth.
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In 1964, Sidney Poitier became the first Black performer to win an Academy Award for acting in a leading role for his performance in 'Lilies of the Field.'
In 1997, 21-year-old Tiger Woods became the youngest golfer to win the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Ga., finishing a record 12 strokes ahead of Tom Kite in second place.
In 1999, right-to-die advocate Dr. Jack Kevorkian was sentenced in Pontiac, Mich., to 10 to 25 years in prison for second-degree murder for administering a lethal injection to a patient with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. (Kevorkian ultimately served eight years before being paroled.)
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In 2005, a defiant Eric Rudolph pleaded guilty to carrying out the deadly bombing at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics and three other attacks in back-to-back court appearances in Birmingham, Ala., and Atlanta.
In 2009, at his second trial, music producer Phil Spector was found guilty by a Los Angeles jury of second-degree murder in the shooting of actor Lana Clarkson. (Later sentenced to 19 years to life, Spector died in prison in January 2021.)
In 2011, a federal jury in San Francisco convicted baseball slugger Barry Bonds of a single charge of obstruction of justice, but failed to reach a verdict on the three counts at the heart of allegations that he knowingly used steroids and human growth hormone and lied to a grand jury about it. (Bonds' conviction for obstruction was overturned in 2015.)
In 2016, the Golden State Warriors became the NBA's first 73-win team, by beating the Memphis Grizzlies 125-104, breaking the 72-win record set by the Chicago Bulls in 1996.
In 2017, Pentagon officials said US forces struck a tunnel complex of the Islamic State group in eastern Afghanistan with the GBU-43/B MOAB 'mother of all bombs,' the largest non-nuclear weapon ever used in combat by the military.
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Boston Globe
4 hours ago
- Boston Globe
Where D.C. crime is bad, residents question Trump's motives
'If Trump is genuinely concerned about safety of D.C. residents, I would see National Guard in my neighborhood,' said Karen Lake, 62, a lawyer who has lived in Congress Heights since 2017, in the far eastern corner of the diamond-shaped district. 'I'm not seeing it, and I don't expect to see it. I don't think Trump is bringing in the National Guard to protect Black babies in Southeast.' Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up Trump might have found a more sympathetic audience in the distant southeastern quadrant of the city, far away from the National Mall, the White House, or the restaurants and clubs of 16th Street and 14th Street, where a young employee of the Department of Government Efficiency recently was beaten in an assault that raised the city's criminal profile to presidential level. Advertisement In neighborhoods such as Congress Heights and Washington Highlands, where the District of Columbia abuts Prince Georges County, Maryland, the city's Black working class struggles with the twin challenges that have diminished the ranks of what was once, when Washington still had a majority-Black population, affectionately called Chocolate City. There's crime, for sure, but also gentrification driving Black residents into suburban Maryland and Virginia. Advertisement In Ward 8, where Congress Heights is found, there have been 38 homicides this year, according to data from the District of Columbia government. That's almost 10 times as many as Ward 2, where the National Mall is located. But when Trump on Monday described the district as 'dirty' and 'disgusting,' menaced by 'roving mobs of wild youth,' he offended some who otherwise might have been more receptive to his 'law-and-order' pitch. 'I know that we're not those things,' said Le'Greg Harrison, who lives in Congress Heights and said he is supportive of more law enforcement, so long as Black residents aren't the target. 'I know we have a beautiful city.' Trump did not mention Congress Heights by name, but residents say they are well aware of the community's crime statistics and the challenges their neighborhood faces. Abigail Jackson, a White House spokesperson, said that federal law enforcement agents had increased their presence in all of the city's neighborhoods, including those in Ward 8. In parts of the ward, she said, arrests have been made in connection with illegal guns and drugs, as well as murder, cruelty to the elderly and other offenses. 'President Trump is committed to making D.C. safe again for all residents,' she said in a written statement. On a humid, overcast afternoon in Washington this week, hungry patrons, mostly Black, pulled up to the retail space known as Sycamore & Oak, which Harrison helped bring to Congress Heights. They grabbed a bite from Black-owned restaurants and discussed what they called Trump's takeover of their city. Advertisement Among the residents of Congress Heights and other neighborhoods of Southeast Washington, the apparent new order has been met with a sense of both incredulity and inevitability. Despite the area's challenges, residents say they take pride in their neighborhood and their city and feel disrespected by the president's portrayal. They feel unseen and misunderstood, their challenges reduced to crime statistics, their children cast as threats, and their culture caricatured. They don't reject safety measures outright. Gerald Walker, a 38-year-old Congress Heights resident, said federal intervention was 'definitely needed.' The National Guard, the FBI, a federalized District of Columbia police force -- 'the more the better.' But many said they were by no means seeking out additional federal involvement in their neighborhoods. And some said they resented being treated as political piñatas in a larger national narrative. It has 'nothing to do with crime in D.C.,' said Ronnie McLeod, 68, a retired bus driver and lifelong Washingtonian who lives in Congress Heights. 'Crime is already down!' 'It's got something to do with something else,' he said. Most of all, many Congress Heights residents say they do not trust Trump's motives. 'He's very out of touch with D.C. people in general,' said Michelle Lee, 42, who lives in Southeast Washington. He may know the political culture of the city, may even have a passing understanding of the ritzier parts of town, she said. Lee, seeming to address the president personally, added, 'You have no idea what an actual resident of D.C. does, goes through.' Advertisement It's not the first time a violent crime against a young, white political staffer has prompted outrage from the federal government. In 1992, an aide to Sen. Richard Shelby of Alabama was murdered on Capitol Hill. In the aftermath, Shelby forced a referendum to restore the death penalty in Washington; the initiative was overwhelmingly rejected by voters. Some residents of Southeast described the president's decision to declare a crime emergency and federalize the Metropolitan Police Department for a 30-day period as a power grab or a way to appease affluent white Washingtonians who are anxious about crime. (Any extension would have to be granted by Congress.) Some residents saw the move as a sly way to further gentrify what is left of affordable Washington, by striking fear in residents of low-income neighborhoods that federalized police officers will harass them, or worse. The city has already showed more interest in developing luxury condominiums than in building community recreation centers for children, said Jimmie Jenkins, 35, who grew up in Congress Heights. Many Black residents are not benefiting from the city's growth, he said, and if conditions don't change, Black people will no longer be a significant part of the city's future. Now Trump is pushing aside the city's Black leadership and bringing in federal troops. 'They're definitely aiming to push more Black people out,' said Tyree Jones, 30, who works in Congress Heights. Salim Adofo, a member of the Advisory Neighborhood Commission that represents parts of Congress Heights, was not surprised that residents were drawing connections among crime, federalized law enforcement and gentrification. 'It's becoming harder to live in this specific community as it continues to get developed,' he said. 'It's all wrapped up in together. You really can't separate any of these things.' Advertisement Like opponents of Trump on national cable talk shows and social media, residents of Southeast Washington said the president's message of 'law and order' was undermined when he pardoned even the most violent assailants who attacked police officers during the attack on the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021. They also brought up his own criminality and raised the possibility that he was deploying forces in Washington to distract from the Jeffrey Epstein scandal. But the residents of Southeast Washington have taken the president's moves personally. Trump, they said, is using them. Older residents remember a time when crime was much worse. 'I grew up in the town in the '90s, when we were, quote unquote, the murder capital for almost 10 years,' said Harrison, 40. 'I wouldn't call what we have a state of emergency,' he said. Still, any deployment of extra enforcement must be done with sensitivity for Black citizens, he added. Many Black communities have said for years that they want to be protected from crime, but they don't want to be aggressively targeted for simply being Black. The president's orders have only underscored those positions. 'My father was murdered in my home when I was 15 years old,' said Erica Champion, 28, who was born and raised in Southeast Washington. 'I watched him die.' Champion said she believed the federal government should step in to prevent violent crime, but she is concerned about abuse of power from law enforcement officers and the White House. 'I just don't want him to use it as a means to make it a dictatorship,' she said. Advertisement Local residents said a more comprehensive strategy to combat crime in the city would involve bigger investments in recreation centers, arts and youth job programs. But that will be difficult after Republicans in Congress forced a $1 billion hole in the district's budget. Trump's federal government layoffs already have Washington officials slashing revenue projections. This article originally appeared in
UPI
4 hours ago
- UPI
Liverpool fan arrested for racist taunts at opposing player
Police in Britain have arrested a man from Liverpool who is accused of shouting racist comments at a player during a Premier League soccer game this week. Photo courtesy of Merseyside Police Aug. 16 (UPI) -- Police in Britain have arrested a man from Liverpool who is accused of shouting racist comments at a player during a Premier League soccer game this week. The 47-year-old man was identified and removed from stands at Anfield Stadium in Liverpool after yelling racist chants at visiting Bournemouth player Antoine Semenyo, police confirmed in a media release. Semenyo, who is Black, first reported the incident to the game's referee who then notified officials. The game was briefly paused in the 29th minute while the fan was removed. The game - a 4-2 Liverpool victory - was the first of the season for both teams. "Merseyside Police will not tolerate hate crime of any take incidents like this very seriously, and in cases like this we will be proactively seeking football banning orders, with the club, against those responsible," Chief Inspector Kev Chatterton said in the police statement. "There is no place for racism and it is vital that anyone who witnesses such an offence reports it to stewards, or the police immediately, so we can take the necessary action like we did this evening." The Premier League said it would also launch its own investigation. "Liverpool Football Club is aware of an allegation of racist abuse made during our Premier League game against Bournemouth. We condemn racism and discrimination in all forms, it has no place in society, or football," the home team said in a statement issued through police. Semenyo on Saturday addressed the issue on social media. "Last night at Anfield will stay with me forever - not because of one person's words, but because of how the entire football family stood together," Semenyo, who is from Chelsea but represents Ghana internationally, wrote on Instagram. "To my Bournemouth team-mates who supported me in that moment, to the Liverpool players and fans who showed their true character, to the Premier League officials who handled it professionally - thank you. Football showed its best side when it mattered most."
New York Post
7 hours 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.'
