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Their families said they needed treatment. Mississippi officials threw them in jail without charges.

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This article contains detailed descriptions of mental illness and suicide. If you or someone you know needs help:

  • Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988
  • Text the Crisis Text Line from anywhere in the U.S. to reach a crisis counselor: 741741

This article was produced for ProPublica’s Local Network in partnership with Mississippi Today. Sign up for Dispatches to get stories like this one as soon as they are published.

When sheriff’s department staff in Mississippi’s Benton County took Jimmy Sons into custody several years ago, they followed their standard protocol for people charged with a crime: They took his mug shot, fingerprinted him, had him change into an orange jumpsuit and locked him up.

But Sons, who was then 20 years old, had not been charged with a crime. Earlier that day, his father, James Sons, had gone to a county office to ask that his youngest son be taken in for a mental evaluation and treatment. Jimmy Sons had threatened to family members and himself, and his father had come across him sitting on his bed with a loaded shotgun.

On Sons’ booking form, in the spot where jailers usually record criminal charges, was a single word: โ€œLUNACY.โ€

The booking form for Jimmy Sons, identifying his โ€œoffenseโ€ as โ€œlunacy.โ€ (Obtained by Mississippi Today)

In every , people who present a threat to themselves or others can be ordered to receive mental health treatment. Most states allow people with substance abuse problems to be ordered into treatment, too. The process is called civil commitment.

But Mississippi Today and ProPublica could not find any state other than Mississippi where people are routinely jailed without charges for days or weeks during that process.

What happened to Sons has occurred hundreds of times a year in the state.

The news organizations examined jail dockets from 19 Mississippi counties โ€” about a quarter of the state’s 82 โ€” that clearly marked bookings related to civil commitments. All told, people in those counties were jailed at least 2,000 times for civil commitments alone from 2019 to 2022. None had been charged with a crime.

Most were deemed to need psychiatric treatment; others were sent to substance abuse programs, according to county officials.

Since 2006, at least 13 people have died in Mississippi county jails as they awaited treatment for mental illness or substance abuse, Mississippi Today and ProPublica found. Nine of the 13 killed themselves. At least 10 hadn’t been charged with a crime.

A woman going through the civil commitment process, wearing a shirt labeling her a โ€œconvict,โ€ is transported from her commitment hearing back to a county jail to await transportation to a state hospital in north Mississippi this spring. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today

We shared our findings with disability rights advocates, mental health officials in other states and 10 national experts on civil commitment or mental health care in jails. They used words such as โ€œhorrifying,โ€ โ€œbreaks my heartโ€ and โ€œspeechlessโ€ when they learned how many people are jailed in Mississippi as they go through the civil commitment process.

Some said they didn’t see how it could be constitutional.

โ€œIf an ER is full, you don’t send people to jail,โ€ said Megan Schuller, legal director of the Bazelon Center for Mental Health Law, a Washington, D.C.-based organization. โ€œThis is just outright discriminatory treatment in my view.โ€

Mississippi Today and ProPublica also interviewed 10 individuals who had been committed and jailed, as well as 20 family members.

Many of those people said they or their family members had been housed alongside criminal defendants. Nobody knew how long they would be there. They were often shackled when they left their cells. Some of them said they couldn’t access prescribed psychiatric medications or had minimal medical care as they experienced withdrawal from illegal drugs.

โ€œIt felt more criminal than, like, they were trying to help me,โ€ said Richard Millwood, who was booked into the DeSoto County jail in 2020 following an attempted suicide. โ€œI got the exact same treatment in there as I did when I was in jail facing charges. In fact worse, in my opinion, because at least when I was facing charges I could bond out.โ€

โ€œI got the exact same treatment in there as I did when I was in jail facing charges. In fact worse, in my opinion, because at least when I was facing charges I could bond out.โ€

Richard Millwood, who was booked into jail following an attempted suicide

DeSoto County leadership, informed of Millwood’s statement, did not respond.

Millwood spent 35 days in jail before being admitted to a publicly funded rehab program 90 miles away.

Jimmy Sons didn’t receive a mental evaluation when he was booked into the Benton County jail in September 2015, according to documents in a lawsuit his father later filed. Less than 24 hours later, he was dead. Left alone in a cell without regular visits by jail staff, he had hanged himself.

He had been back in Mississippi for just a few days, planning to join his dad in electrical work, said his mother, Juli Murray. He had set out from her home in Bradenton, Florida, so early in the morning that he didn’t say goodbye.

Jimmy Sons at age 18 at his father’s home in Mississippi (Courtesy of John Sons)

Murray remembers the phone call from Jimmy’s half-brother in which she learned her son was in jail. She didn’t understand why.

โ€œIf you do something wrong, that’s why you’re in jail,โ€ she said. โ€œNot if you’re not mentally well. Why would they put them in there?โ€

The Lesser Sin

When James Sons went to the clerk’s office in the tiny town of Ashland to file commitment paperwork for his son, he took the first step in Mississippi’s peculiar, antiquated system for mandating treatment for people with serious mental health problems.

It starts when someone โ€” usually a family member, but it could be almost anyone โ€” signs a form alleging that the person in question is โ€œin need of treatment because the person is mentally ill under law and poses a likelihood of physical harm to themselves or others.โ€

James Sons filled out that form, listing why he was concerned: Jimmy’s guns, his threats, his talk of suicide.

Then a special master โ€” an attorney appointed by a chancery judge to make commitment decisions โ€” issued a โ€œWrit to Take Custody.โ€ It instructed sheriff’s deputies in Benton County, just south of the Tennessee border, to hold Jimmy Sons at the jail until he could be evaluated.

The sheriff’s office asked Sons to come in on an unrelated matter. When he showed up, Chief Deputy Joe Batts told him he needed a mental health evaluation. Batts tried to reassure Sons that the process would be as quick as possible and would end with him back home, according to Batts’ testimony in the lawsuit Sons’ father filed over his death.

Then Batts told Sons, โ€œWhat we’re going to have to do now is take you back and book you.โ€

What he never told Sons, he later acknowledged in a deposition, was that the young man would have to wait in jail for days before he would see a mental health provider. The first screening required by law was four days away. If it concluded he needed further examination, he would be evaluated by two more medical professionals. Then the special master would decide whether to order him into treatment at a state psychiatric hospital.

The whole process should take seven to 10 days, according to the state Department of Mental Health. But sometimes it takes longer, the news organizations found. And if someone is ordered into treatment at their hearing, they generally have to wait for a bed, though the department says average wait times for state hospital beds after hearings have dropped dramatically in the last year.

While waiting for their hearing, people like Sons are supposed to receive treatment at a hospital or a short-term public mental health facility called a crisis stabilization unit. But state law does allow people to be jailed before their commitment hearing if there is โ€œno reasonable alternative.โ€ (The law is less clear about what’s following a hearing.)

The Benton County Sheriff’s Department formerly housed the county jail where Jimmy Sons died, in Ashland, Mississippi. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today

Mississippi Today and ProPublica spoke to dozens of officials across Mississippi involved in the commitment process: clerks who handle the paperwork, chancery judges and special masters who sign commitment orders, sheriffs who run the jails, deputies who people from jails to state hospitals, and the head of the state Department of Mental Health.

None of them thinks jail is the right place for people awaiting treatment for mental illness.

โ€œWe’re not a mental health hospital,โ€ said Greg Pollan, president of the Mississippi Sheriffs’ Association and the sheriff of rural Calhoun County in the north of the state. โ€œWe’re not even a mental health Band-Aid station. That’s not what we do. So they should never, ever see the inside of my jail.โ€

Batts himself, who took Sons into custody in Benton County, said law enforcement across Mississippi โ€œhate to detain people like that. But we’re told we have to do it.โ€ He acknowledged that the facility โ€œwas substandard to begin with, not the and the adequate facilities to hold and monitor someone in that mental state โ€” it just puts everybody in a bad situation.โ€ And he said he thought the state could provide alternatives to jail.

Some counties jail most people going through the commitment process for mental illness, Mississippi Today and ProPublica found. Other counties reserve jail for people who are deemed violent or likely to hurt themselves. And at least a handful sometimes jail people committed for substance abuse โ€” even though a 2021 opinion by the state’s says that isn’t allowed under state law.

This happens because until people are admitted to a state hospital, counties are responsible for covering the costs of the commitment process unless the state provides funding. If a crisis stabilization unit is full or turns someone away, the county must find an alternative, and it must foot the bill.

Counties can place patients in an ER or contract with a psychiatric hospital โ€” and some do โ€” but many officials balk at the cost. Many officials, particularly those in poor, rural counties, see jail as the only option.

โ€œYou have to put them somewhere to monitor them,โ€ said Cindy Austin, chancery clerk in rural Smith County, located in central Mississippi. Chancery clerks are responsible for finding beds for people going through the commitment process. โ€œIt’s not that anybody wants to hold them in jail, it’s just we have no hospital here to hold them in.โ€

Timothy Gowan, an attorney who adjudicated commitments in Noxubee County from 1999 to late 2020, said people going through the commitment process there generally were jailed if they were determined to be violent and their family didn’t want them at home.

According to the Noxubee County jail docket, people going through the civil commitment process with no criminal charges were booked into the jail about 50 times from 2019 to 2022. Ten stays lasted at least 30 days. The longest was 82 days.

โ€œPutting a sick person in a jail is a sin,โ€ Gowan said. โ€œBut it’s the lesser of somebody getting killed.โ€

Some counties rarely hold people in jail โ€” sometimes because a sheriff, chancery judge or other official has taken a stand against it. Rural Neshoba County in central Mississippi pays Alliance, a psychiatric hospital in Meridian, to house patients.

โ€œWe’re not a mental health hospital. We’re not even a mental health Band-Aid station. That’s not what we do. So they should never, ever see the inside of my jail.โ€

Greg Pollan, president of the Mississippi Sheriffs’ Association and sheriff of Calhoun County

The practice isn’t confined to poor, rural counties. DeSoto County, a populous, relatively wealthy county near Memphis, jailed people without charges about 500 times over four years, the most of any of the counties analyzed by Mississippi Today and ProPublica. The median jail stay there was about nine days; the longest was 106.

The state and county recently set aside money to build a crisis stabilization unit โ€” currently, the nearest one is about 40 miles away โ€” but the county and the local community mental health center haven’t decided on a location, said County Supervisor Mark Gardner.

Some county officials say that keeping people out of jail during the process requires the state to step up. State Rep. Jansen Owen, a Republican from Pearl River County in southern Mississippi who represents people during the commitment process, said he believes counties that spend โ€œmillions of dollars on fairgrounds and ballparksโ€ could find alternatives to jail. But he also sees a need for more state-funded facilities.

โ€œYou can’t just throw it on the counties,โ€ he said. โ€œIt’s a state prerogative. And them being held in the jail, I think, is a result of the state kicking the can down the road to the counties.โ€

Wendy Bailey, head of the state Department of Mental Health, said it’s โ€œunacceptableโ€ to jail people simply because they may need behavioral health treatment. Department staff have met with chancery clerks around the state to urge them to steer families away from commitment proceedings and toward outpatient services offered by community mental health centers whenever possible.

The Department of Mental Health says it prioritizes people waiting in jail when making admissions to state hospitals. The state has expanded the number of crisis unit beds from 128 in 2018 to 180 today, with plans to add more. And it has increased funding for local services in recent years in an effort to reduce commitments.

But Bailey said the department has no authority to force counties to change course, nor legal responsibility for people going through the commitment process until a judge orders them into treatment at a state psychiatric hospital.

Locked in the “Lunacy Zone”

Willie McNeese’s problems started after he came home to Shuqualak, Mississippi, a town of about 400 people and a lumber mill, in 2007. He had spent a decade in prison starting at age 17.

He found the changes that had taken place โ€” bigger highways, cellphones โ€” overwhelming, said his sister, Cassandra McNeese. He was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

โ€œIt’s like a switch โ€” highs and lows,โ€ said Willie McNeese, now 43. โ€œI might have a whole lot of laughter going on, trying to make the next person laugh. Then my day going down, I be depressed and worried about situations that nobody can change but God.โ€

McNeese has been involuntarily committed in Noxubee County 10 times since 2008 and has been jailed during at least eight of them, one for more than a month in 2019 according to court records and the jail docket. During his most recent commitment starting in March 2022, McNeese was held in jail for a total of 58 days in two stints before eventually going to a state psychiatric hospital.

Cassandra McNeese, left, and her mother, Yvonne A. McNeese, in Shuqualak, Mississippi. Cassandra’s brother, Willie McNeese, has been held in jail during civil commitment proceedings at least eight times since 2008. Cassandra McNeese said Noxubee County officials told her jail was the only place they had for him to wait. “This is who you trust to take care of things,” she said. “That’s all you have to rely on.โ€ Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today

From 2019 to 2022, about 1,200 civil commitment jail stays in the 19 counties analyzed by Mississippi Today and ProPublica lasted longer than three days. That’s about how long it can take for people to start to experience withdrawal from a lack of psychiatric medications, which jails don’t always provide. About 130 stays lasted more than 30 days.

McNeese said he spent much of his time in jail last year standing near the door of his cell, what jail staff called the โ€œLunacy Zone,โ€ screaming to be allowed to take a shower. A jailer tased him to quiet him down, and his clothes were taken from him. For a period, his mattress was taken, too.

โ€œIt’s a way of punishment,โ€ he said. โ€œThey don’t handle it like the hospital. If you have a problem in the hospital they’ll come with a shot or something, but they don’t take your clothes or take your mattress or lock your door on you or nothing like that.โ€

McNeese said he had inconsistent access to medication and received none during his first stay in 2022, which lasted 25 days.

The Noxubee County Sheriff’s Department did not respond to questions about McNeese’s allegations.

Staff from Community Counseling, the community mental health center where McNeese had regular appointments, could have provided him with medication, but McNeese said no one from the center came to visit him in jail. A therapist at Community Counseling said staff go to the jail only when they’re called, usually when there’s a problem jail staff can’t handle. Rayfield Evins Jr., the organization’s executive director, said when he recently worked in Noxubee, deputies brought people from the jail to his facility for medication and treatment.

โ€œIf you have a problem in the hospital they’ll come with a shot or something, but they don’t take your clothes or take your mattress or lock your door on you or nothing like that.โ€

Willie B. McNeese, jailed multiple times following a diagnosis of bipolar disorder

Mental health advocates in Mississippi and other people who have been jailed during the commitment process said the limited mental health treatment McNeese received is common.

Mental health care varies widely from jail to jail, and no state agency sets requirements for what care must be provided. Jails can refuse to distribute medications that are controlled substances, which includes anti-anxiety medications like Xanax. The state Department of Mental Health says counties should work with community mental health centers to provide treatment to people waiting in jail as they go through the commitment process.

But those facilities generally don’t have the resources to provide services in jails, said Greta Martin, litigation director for Disability Rights Mississippi.

Martin’s organization, one of those charged by Congress with advocating for people with disabilities in each state, investigates county jails when it receives complaints. โ€œWe are not seeing any indication that these individuals are getting any mental health treatment while they are being held in these county facilities,โ€ she said.

Willie McNeese was incarcerated at the old jail in Noxubee County multiple times during civil commitment processes, including his first commitment in 2008. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today

McNeese said those jail stays added physical discomfort and pain to the delusions that got him committed in the first place. โ€œThen you get to the mental hospital โ€” they have to straighten you all the way back over again,โ€ he said.

Since being released from the state hospital last year, McNeese said, he has been doing well. He is now living in Cincinnati with his wife.

Scott Willoughby, the program director at South Mississippi State Hospital in Purvis, said it can be hard to earn patients’ trust when they arrive at the psychiatric hospital from jail.

At his facility, patients sleep two to a room in a hall decorated with photographs of nature scenes. Group counseling sessions are often held outside under a gazebo. In between, patients draw and paint during recreational therapy.

Willoughby has spoken with patients who had attempted suicide and were shocked to find themselves in jail as a result.

โ€œPeople tend to associate jail with punishment, which is exactly the opposite of what a person needs when they’re in a mental health crisis,โ€ he said. โ€œJail can be traumatic and stigmatizing.โ€

“I’m More Scared of Myself”

When Sons learned that he was going to be booked, he became anxious about being locked in a cell, Batts testified. So he was assigned to an area of the jail reserved for trusties โ€” inmates who are allowed to work, sometimes outside the jail, while they serve their sentences.

On the afternoon of his first day in jail, Sons was sitting on his bed when a trusty named Donnie Richmond returned from work. Richmond said in a deposition that he asked a deputy who the new guy was.

โ€œYou better watch him,โ€ Richmond recalled the deputy telling him. โ€œHe kind of off a little bit.โ€

Richmond offered Sons a cigarette and cookies and asked him why he was there. Sons took a cigarette and told Richmond the deputies had said he would hurt someone.

โ€œHe was like, โ€˜Man, I’m going to be honest with you,’โ€ Richmond testified. โ€œโ€˜I ain’t going to hurt no one. I’m more scared of myself, of hurting myself.’โ€

Sons was not placed on suicide watch. The jail’s suicide prevention policy applied only to those who had attempted suicide in the jail, although attorneys for the jail officials in the lawsuit over his death said there was an unwritten policy to closely monitor people going through the commitment process.

An excerpt of the Benton County Sheriff’s Department’s suicide prevention policy at the time of Sons’ death (Obtained by Mississippi Today.)

That evening, Sons told a jailer he was feeling anxious around the other . He asked to be moved to a cell by himself.

A guard took him to a cinder block cell with no windows. There was no television and nothing to read. He was given a blanket.

A security camera in Sons’ cell was supposed to allow jail staff to watch him at all times. But jail officials said in depositions that no one noticed anything unusual the next morning.

At 11:28 a.m., Sons rose from his bunk bed, walked to the door and placed his ear near it. He went back to his bunk, fashioned a noose and tied it around his neck. He sat there for three minutes before hanging himself, according to a narrative of the video in court records.

He stopped moving just before 11:38 a.m. A trusty serving lunch peeked through a tray opening in the door 48 minutes later and saw his body.

The door of the Benton County Jail cell where Sons was held (Obtained by Mississippi Today)

Sons’ father sued Benton County, the sheriff and several of his employees over his death. The defendants denied in court filings that they were responsible, but the county’s insurance company eventually settled the case for an undisclosed sum. (All that’s publicly known is that the county paid a $25,000 policy deductible toward defense costs.)

Sheriff’s department staff said in depositions they had kept an eye on Sons, but they couldn’t watch the video feed constantly. Lawyers for the defendants said there was no evidence sheriff’s department employees knew someone could kill himself in the way Sons did.

Sheriff A. A. McMullen, who is no longer in office, acknowledged in a deposition that โ€œany mental commitment is a suicide risk,โ€ but he said he wasn’t sure it would have made a difference if Sons had been placed on suicide watch.

โ€œYou could write up the biggest policy in the world and you couldn’t prevent it. There’s no way. God knows, you know, it hurts us,โ€ he said. โ€œIf they’re going to do it, they’re going to do it.โ€

McMullen couldn’t be reached for comment for this story.

In an interview, jail administrator Kristy O’Dell, who joined the department after Sons died, said the jail still holds two or three people going through the commitment process each month.

John S. Farese, an attorney for Benton County, told Mississippi Today and ProPublica that the county, like others, โ€œdoes the best they can do with the resources they have to abide by the lawsโ€ regarding commitments. He said the sheriff and the county will try to adapt to any changes in the law โ€œwhile still being mindful of our limited personnel and financial resources.โ€ He declined to comment on the specifics of the Sons case, which he didn’t work on.

Murray, Sons’ mother, was at a grocery store around noon the day her son died. As she picked out a watermelon, she thought about him, a fitness buff who loved fruits and vegetables. A strange thought crossed her mind: โ€œJimmy’s never going to eat watermelon again.โ€

When she got home, she got the call that he was gone.

John Sons, Jimmy’s half-brother, wrote in a text to Mississippi Today and ProPublica that the family is left with โ€œcomplete and total guilt for putting him in the prison and always the wonder if we would not have done that move, if he would be with us today.โ€

But Richmond, the trusty who briefly shared a cell with Sons, testified that it was jail staff who โ€œmessed up.โ€

โ€œHe hung himself,โ€ Richmond said. โ€œI say this. God forgive me if I’m wrong. We couldn’t have saved that man from killing himself, but we could have saved that man from hanging himself in that jail.โ€

How we reported this story

No one in Mississippi has ever comprehensively tracked the number of people jailed at any point during the civil commitment process, according to interviews with dozens of state and county officials.

Last year, the state Department of Mental Health released, for the first time, a tally of people who were admitted to a state hospital directly from jail following civil commitment proceedings. The department tracked 734 placements in fiscal year 2022. (Under a law that takes effect this year, every county must regularly report to the department data regarding how often people are held in jail both before and after their commitment hearings.)

But that figure understates the scope of commitments. It doesn’t include people who were sent places other than a state hospital for treatment or who were released without being treated, and it counts only the time people spent in jail after their hearings. People can be jailed for 12 days before a commitment hearing, or longer if a county doesn’t follow the law.

County jail dockets can provide a more comprehensive picture, so Mississippi Today and ProPublica requested them from 80 of Mississippi’s 82 counties. Seventeen counties provided dockets that clearly marked bookings related to civil commitments โ€” with notes including โ€œwrit to take custody,โ€ โ€œmental writโ€ and โ€œlunacy.โ€ In two more counties, we reviewed dockets in person.

Many counties didn’t respond, said their records were available only on paper or declined to provide records. Some cited a 2007 opinion by the state attorney general that sheriffs may choose not to enter the names of people detained during civil commitment proceedings onto their jail dockets.

After cleaning and standardizing the data from the dockets, we counted the number of jail stays involving civil commitments in which the person was not booked for a criminal charge on the same day. (We ended up excluding about 750 civil commitments for that reason.) If the dockets provided booking and release dates, we calculated the duration of jail stays.

Our count of commitments includes those for both mental illness and substance abuse. None of the jail dockets specified which commitment process people were going through, although some county officials said they don’t jail people committed for substance abuse and haven’t for years.

State laws regarding commitment for mental illness and substance abuse are different, but in many counties they were handled similarly until late 2021. That’s when the Mississippi attorney general’s office said state law didn’t allow people going through the drug and alcohol commitment process to be jailed.

To identify deaths of individuals held in jail during the civil commitment process, we reviewed news articles and federal court records. We also reviewed nearly 90 investigations of jail deaths from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. Most of the deaths had not previously been publicly reported.

For our survey of practices in other states, we contacted agencies overseeing mental health and disability advocacy organizations in every state and Washington, D.C. We received responses from one or the other in every location, and we received responses from both in 33. We also searched for news reports of similar cases in other states.

Do you have a story to share about someone who went through the civil commitment process in Mississippi? Contact Isabelle Taft at itaft@mississippitoday.org or call her at 601-691-4756.

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

Mississippi Today

New radio show heightens concerns of Republican influence at Mississippi Public Broadcasting

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mississippitoday.org – Adam Ganucheau – 2024-10-31 13:01:00

Russ Latino, president of Empower Mississippi, testifies in favor of eliminating the income tax at a joint legislative tax study committee hearing at the Capitol in Jackson, Miss., Thursday, Aug. 26, 2021. (AP Photo/Rogelio V. Solis)

Russ Latino, a former lobbyist and cheerleader for some of the most radical policies in Mississippi, has been no stranger to lawmakers at the Mississippi Capitol for the past decade.

His extensive advocacy included promoting bills that would expand the flow of taxpayer dollars to private schools and drastically slash state spending, including for public education. In the summer of 2021, he was invited by legislative Republicans to testify in a hearing that Mississippi should eliminate its income tax, which funds about one-third of the state’s general budget.

His political work is also notorious. He helped lead an alliance of Republican Party and special interest groups who successfully fought against a 2015 statewide referendum that would have compelled lawmakers to fully fund public schools. He was also a public proxy for far-right state senator Chris McDaniel’s insurgent and scandal-ridden 2014 bid for U.S. Senate against Thad Cochran.

But Latino’s visit to the Capitol one day late in the 2021 legislative session was not for lobbying purposes. He’d just been nominated by Gov. Tate Reeves to serve on the board of directors of Mississippi Public Broadcasting, the venerated statewide public radio and television network, and he had to stand before the Senate Education Committee for his confirmation hearing.

โ€œCurrently, my job is oriented around public policy and thinking through solutions for the state,โ€ Latino told senators in the March 25, 2021, hearing. โ€œ… In my mind, there’s a pretty big separation between the things I work on in my public policy work and the work of Mississippi Public Broadcasting. I don’t see any intersection, I don’t see any conflict, and I was comfortable after thinking about it that there wasn’t really any conflict between the two.โ€

The senators apparently agreed, voting unanimously to confirm his appointment. For the next three-plus years, Latino served on the MPB board and helped oversee the operations and budget of the public television and radio network that generations of Mississippians have come to trust as a champion of critical public education initiatives and journalistic independence.

MPB, an organization which employs about 90 people, was created by the Mississippi Legislature in 1969 to provide “educational and instructional professional growth and public service programs for the students and citizens of Mississippi.”

Thousands of individual donors give to MPB’s nonprofit foundation, which helps underwrite some programming for the network. But the vast majority of MPB’s annual funding comes directly from the Legislature, which appropriates millions in taxpayer dollars to the state agency each year to operate its statewide network and pay its staff.

This year, lawmakers appropriated $11.2 million for MPB. Though the agency’s annual appropriation from the state fluctuates each year based on need, this year’s appropriation is nearly $1 million less than the agency received a decade ago.

Funding MPB with taxpayer dollars has long been a perilous prospect. Numerous times in recent years, Republicans, who have complete control of the Legislature’s two chambers and the state budget, have threatened to slash the network’s appropriation. In 2024, 23 Republican House members voted against funding MPB altogether โ€” up from 21 House Republicans who voted against funding in 2023 and 15 House Republicans who voted against funding in 2022.

MPB, like most public radio affiliates, airs several National Public Radio shows every day, and some Republican lawmakers have been quick to equate MPB’s local programming with their national counterparts. In reality, though, state dollars do not pay for NPR programming, and MPB’s leadership has for years instructed hosts of local programming to avoid politics altogether. MPB’s newsroom, which operates independently of the network’s other local programming, does closely state politics and government.

Latino was an unorthodox board appointee even for Reeves, who has long used his offices to appoint political allies and people who share his political views. Latino had scant professional experience in either an educational or journalistic setting โ€” a typical qualification for MPB board members. Nonetheless, after his confirmation, he was an active board member during his term, routinely engaging in important conversations about organizational matters and eventually serving as vice chair of the board.

Among the major moves MPB made during Latino’s board term was the hiring of a new MPB executive director named Royal Aills.

A potential conflict of interest

In late 2022, with about a year-and-a-half left on Latino’s board term, an announcement shocked several MPB employees and seemed to counter Latino’s assurance to senators that his term would be free of conflict: He was launching a digital news organization called The Magnolia Tribune.

The Magnolia Tribune, Latino told friends and family in a December 2022 email, would seek to disrupt Mississippi’s existing media landscape โ€” one that prominently included the newsroom that fell under his purview at MPB.

โ€œFaith in traditional media has been undermined by blatant bias and often by careless reporting of complex issues,โ€ Latino wrote in his announcement. โ€œWe will work to restore trustโ€ฆ While our commentary will often appeal to conservatives, we will not shy from providing a platform for divergent viewpoints.โ€

The potential for conflict between the mission of his upstart newsroom and MPB’s newsroom was apparent enough to Latino that he requested an opinion from the Mississippi Ethics Commission in January 2023.

โ€œMy question relates not to any pecuniary benefit, but to whether there is a conflict of interest in the Ethics Commission’s mind of being involved in providing news at (The Magnolia Tribune) when (MPB) also provides news,โ€ Latino wrote to the Ethics Commission. โ€œIn my estimation, there is not. We have very different revenue models, very different products, and different audiences. It’s not inconceivable that there could occasionally be overlap in coverage or audience, though.โ€

Latino may not have been worried about any potential conflict, but staffers at the state agency he oversaw certainly were, current and former MPB staffers who spoke with Mississippi Today said. They expressed concerns with their colleagues about Latino’s new media venture and that they feared senior MPB leaders might become influenced by their board member’s views about the media at large.

โ€œIt’s no wonder trust in the media is plummeting. The industry is in crisis, but simultaneously self-satisfied, smarmy, and condescending toward critics.โ€

Russ Latino on Oct. 22, 2024

In response to Latino’s request, the Ethics Commission, a board appointed completely by the state’s top Republican Party elected officials, ruled that there was no conflict of interest and that Latino could continue serving on the MPB board with one caveat.

โ€œ(Latino) may not use his position on the board to obtain or attempt to obtain any pecuniary benefit for himselfโ€ฆ, โ€ the Ethics Commission wrote in an April 7, 2023, opinion. โ€œ(Latino) also states (The Magnolia Tribune) will not enter a contract with or provide services to (MPB). If those circumstances change during (Latino’s) term of office on the board or within one year thereafter, a violation of Section 109, Miss. Constitution of 1890, and Section 25-4-105(2) and (3)(a) could arise. In that event, (Latino) would need to seek a supplemental opinion.โ€

Cleared then of any conflict by the Ethics Commission, Latino remained on the MPB board while continuing to launch his own newsroom.

Anti-press, anti-public education views

During the course of The Magnolia Tribune’s existence, Latino has published columns and fired off social media posts that are deeply critical of Mississippi journalists, news outlets and the American press at large.

Latino often rushes to critique unfavorable coverage of Mississippi’s Republican politicians, in particular, fueling speculation about Latino’s true motives with his news outlet. Several on MPB’s staff, they told Mississippi Today, paid close attention to their board member’s constant criticism of the press.

โ€œ… It is understandable that a Republican politician might begin to believe that it does not matter how reasonable their answer, they are better off not trusting media to be fair,โ€ Latino wrote during the 2023 gubernatorial campaign.

โ€œIt’s no wonder trust in the media is plummeting,โ€ Latino wrote just this month, repeating his regular refrain. โ€œThe industry is in crisis, but simultaneously self-satisfied, smarmy, and condescending toward critics.โ€

Latino has also used his outlet as the homepage for proponents of what he calls โ€œschool choiceโ€ โ€” a Republican-parroted catchphrase that includes various measures that would ultimately pump public dollars into private schools. Latino spent years advocating for these causes on behalf of Americans for Prosperity, a national Koch brothers-founded dark money organization. After he left AFP, he lobbied for the same issues as senior vice president at Empower Mississippi.

Dozens of supporters of Americans For Prosperity, a group that advocates free markets and small government, listen as state director Russ Latino a press conference on Tuesday, Feb. 21, 2017, at the Capitol in Jackson. The group called for reduction of spending and better use of finances by the state. (AP Photo/Rogelio V. Solis)

For years, MPB staffers quietly watched on as Latino held a board seat for an agency funded by the state under the banner of public education all while using his own news outlet to pressure lawmakers into passing policies that stood to take dollars out of public education coffers.

โ€œWhat’s certain is that self-avowed โ€˜conservatives’ were not actively working to torpedo efforts to empower parents in (neighboring) states,โ€ Latino wrote in a March 2023 piece that blasted Mississippi’s Senate Republicans for rejecting a Reeves political appointee who unabashedly supported allowing public dollars to benefit private schools. โ€œThe time for half-measure and obfuscation is over. It’s time for leaders to publicly declare if they will stand with parents and for children, or for a status quo that has held many students back from finding success.โ€

โ€œIt’s not only good policy. It’s good politics,โ€ Latino wrote shortly before the 2024 legislative session began. โ€œMississippi has made tremendous strides in education in recent years. It need not take its foot off the accelerator. Effective choice programs that empower parents are one more tool in the arsenal to continue growth.โ€

After a year-and-a-half of both serving on the MPB board and running his news outlet, Latino’s term on the board expired on June 30, 2024.

Gov. Reeves then appointed Cory Custer, the governor’s current deputy chief of staff who serves as a spokesman for the governor’s office. Before he joined Reeves’ staff, Custer served as a Trump administration appointee.

Custer carries the same โ€œliberal media biasโ€ torch as Latino, routinely issuing public statements on behalf of Reeves that attempt to discredit news outlets and individual journalists. 

During Custer’s first MPB board meeting in July, three senior staff members from National Public Radio joined via video conference. According to board minutes, Custer โ€œpressed NPR staff about bias in their newsroom. He asked for specific changes that have been implemented to combat bias. that discussion, Custer requested that MPB leadership continue to hold NPR accountable for implementing legitimate observable and quantifiable changes to combat bias in their newsroom.โ€

Around the time of that same board meeting, plans for a new MPB radio show were underway.

A โ€˜new and interesting’ MPB show is born

Senior MPB staffers were informed over the summer by Aills, the executive director who Latino helped hire, that their former board member would soon be getting his own radio show.

MPB staffers across several internal departments were tasked with working with Latino to develop the concept.

It would be a weekly interview show called โ€œThe Sit Down with Russ Latino,โ€ featuring conversations with politicians. Despite a years-long edict from MPB leadership that in-house programming must remain free from overt politics, the new show would not avoid mention of major political issues. Latino would have editorial control of his show, and he’d get the 10 a.m. hour every Wednesday morning.

Aills told Mississippi Today that the show was his idea.

Royal Aills (MPB)

โ€œI have been discussing the idea for this type of show for a while, along with other staff members who, in their current roles, make content and programming decisions at MPB,โ€ Aills said in an emailed response to several questions for this article. โ€œ… I think that it is important to have a show like this, not because Russ Latino is hosting the show necessarily โ€” it really could be anyone โ€” but I think this type of show is important because it provides something new and interesting to our current lineup.โ€

Latino, who said he is not being compensated for the show by MPB or its foundation, told Mississippi Today he hopes the show will โ€œcreate content that makes people think deeply about the issues that matter and to more fully embrace the wonderful aspects of Mississippi’s culture.โ€

As MPB executive director, Aills lives in a state of political difficulty.

On one hand, he must navigate an incredibly media-hostile Legislature that almost totally controls his agency’s annual budget. Concerns over the threat of politically-inspired budget cuts at MPB have long been openly discussed among staff across all departments, and that pressure is felt most directly in the MPB executive suite.

On the other hand, Aills has a loyal donor base and listenership in Mississippi that relies on and deeply appreciates NPR programming.

Asked if the creation of Latino’s show was an effort to provide what some may consider “political balance” to satisfy certain Mississippi politicians, Aills was blunt in his denial.

โ€œNo. At MPB, we serve all of Mississippi โ€” that means sharing the thoughts and opinions of everyone who makes up the state, not just the ones who share similar political viewpoints or beliefs,โ€ Aills said. โ€œThis is not a measure to appease any select group. This is trying to create programs that offer a little something for everyoneโ€ฆ In order to grow our audience, we believe that we have to expand our programming offerings to entice new audiences with new content.โ€

A skeptical MPB staff presses for answers

Internal conversations at MPB tell a slightly different story than the one Aills laid out in his answers to Mississippi Today: He has for months been considering changes to local programming amid the political pressure.

In an at times contentious July 2024 all-staff meeting, Aills was asked by colleagues how he was responding to political pressure from Republicans. In response, Aills dwelled on local programming changes and directly acknowledged criticism from some lawmakers over their perceived notion of liberal bias, according to audio of the meeting shared with Mississippi Today.

“I do hear the Legislature because they do fund us,โ€ Aills told his colleagues in the meeting. โ€œWe’re no different than the state Department of Health. If (lawmakers) say do something, you gotta do it. I don’t get to say, โ€˜No wait a minute, we have a right to let the people hear.’ You have to do what (lawmakers) tell you to do because (they) fund you. And if you don’t, (they) won’t fund you. I like my job, and I think you like your job, and I want to keep you in your job. So the goal is to keep the job. But I do hear them, we are going to respond in some way, but we’re not going to throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

The reality of the political pressures aside, several MPB staffers told Mississippi Today they had grown uncomfortable with Aills’ apparent effort to court Reeves and the governor’s office. In the same July staff meeting, Aills celebrated the governor’s selection of Custer, who has sharply criticized the press on behalf of his boss, as the newest board member.

โ€œThe governor supports us, believe it or not,โ€ Aills told his staff. โ€œHe actually put a new board member on our board because he likes us that much. He could have appointed anybody โ€ฆ He put one of his staff members on there … that is awesome for us.”

Not long after that staff meeting, Aills informed senior leaders at MPB that Latino would be getting his own show.

When the full MPB staff caught wind of the new show, some began acknowledging to one another that their fear about how the politically-appointed board of directors might influence senior executives appeared to have been realized.

The outcome, in their minds, was bleak, and Aills had gone against what he vowed in that staff meeting.

A man who has been paid to lobby for cutting government spending and to fight against efforts to increase funding for public education would be handed a microphone at MPB, an agency funded through the state’s public education budget.

A man who has spent his career cozying up to some of the same Republican politicians who threatened to cut MPB’s budget was welcomed with open arms into their respected studio.

A man who has spent years sowing distrust of and discontent with the press would share airwaves with a newsroom of award-winning journalists who were working to hold all elected officials accountable.

A special guest for the first episode

If there was any hope remaining that Latino’s show would not veer in the direction some at MPB feared, that vanished about 15 minutes into the very first episode that aired on Oct. 23.

Latino’s guest for his first episode was none other than Tate Reeves, the governor who appointed Latino to MPB’s board three years prior and thus started the relationship that ultimately led to the show’s creation.

Russ Latino interviews Gov. Tate Reeves for the first episode of “The Sit Down With Russ Latino.” Credit: MPB

After a few questions about Reeves’ upbringing and political start, Latino steered the interview toward a topic dear to his heart: education. He teed up Reeves, a longtime supporter of โ€œschool choiceโ€ legislation himself, with several leading questions about finding new solutions to the state’s public education problems.

โ€œThe conversation around school choice is an interesting conversation,โ€ Latino said on the show. โ€œYou see Louisiana has just enacted a universal school choice program, Arkansas a couple years ago enacted a universal school choice program, Alabama’s got something close to that, I think Tennessee and (Governor) Bill Lee are pushing for that. When we look at Mississippi, do you think the time is right for something like what we’ve seen in those surrounding states where parents would have more ability to decide the right (school) setting for their kids?โ€

The governor, in response, took the opportunity to advocate for similar policies in Mississippi.

Latino and Reeves also used the statewide radio platform to discuss their shared opposition to expansion, which countless experts say would save the state’s struggling rural hospitals and provide to hundreds of thousands of people in America’s poorest and unhealthiest state.

Latino did not push back on any of the governor’s statements โ€” even some commonly-used talking points that were misleading or inaccurate.

While the interview was occurring, Custer, MPB’s newest board member and the governor’s staff handler, stood just outside the studio and listened to his boss chum it up with Latino.

A few minutes earlier, Custer had been pulled aside by the MPB news director, according to people who witnessed the encounter. She asked Custer if the governor, notoriously reluctant to to reporters and difficult to pin down for interviews, could visit with the MPB news staff before leaving the property and answer some questions for โ€œMississippi Edition,โ€ the newsroom’s morning time program.

Custer declined the invitation. Reeves completed his interview with Latino, and he and Custer left the building.

A note from Mississippi Today Editor-in-Chief Adam Ganucheau: I’m a loyal listener of Mississippi Public Broadcasting and greatly respect the history of the organization that is committed to telling the full truth about our home state. For more than 10 years, I’ve worked in the same close quarters as many of MPB’s reporters and greatly respect their service to Mississippi. The newsroom I lead here at Mississippi Today also has close ties to MPB. Our Editor-At-Large Marshall Ramsey has had his own weekly radio show on MPB since June 2013, and our Managing Editor Michael Guidry formerly worked in the MPB newsroom from November 2019 through February 2024. I leaned on institutional knowledge from both Marshall and Michael while I worked on this article, and Michael contributed some of the reporting. I reached out to Russ Latino with several questions for this article, and he shared a statement and requested it be published in its entirety. You can read his statement here.

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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PHOTOS: Bridging language barriers through interpreter training

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mississippitoday.org – Eric J. Shelton – 2024-10-31 06:00:00

Selma Alford, Director of the of Language Access, speaks about the profession of medical interpreting during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/

Ridgeland โ€” In Mississippi, where an estimated 35,800 residents face language barriers in care, a recent event trained professionals to communicate more effectively with limited-English-speaking patients in an effort to bridge gaps in care.

The program, which began on Oct. 2, was organized by the Mississippi Department of Health’s Office of Health Disparity Elimination and the Bureau of Language Access. It served as a step toward improving access to essential services for Limited English Proficient (LEP) individuals.

โ€œInterpreters are fundamental in ensuring that every individual can fully understand and access the services they need,โ€ said Selma Alford, director of the Bureau of Language Access. โ€œThe training is rigorous and essential; it focuses on ethics, cultural competency, and the ongoing development of interpreters’ skills to meet diverse community needs.โ€

The training program covered a variety of topics essential for effective interpreting, including medical terminology, ethics, and cultural competency, equipping interpreters with the skills necessary for their roles. Each day of training interactive sessions, role-playing exercises, and discussions of real-world scenarios. Participants also engaged in exercises focused on building trust with clients and addressing the nuances of communication in settings.

Attendees included medical interpreters, court interpreters, teachers and community health workers, among others.

Gabrielle Miller, a housing case with the Coast Center for Nonviolence, attended to enhance her capacity to serve the Spanish-speaking population. 

โ€œI studied social work and Spanish in undergrad, and I’ve lived in Spanish-speaking countries. Now I’m back here working in the Gulf Coast … There aren’t that many people working in social services who can speak Spanish and interpret for those in the community. So I think it’s really important to get my certification so that I can better serve the community that I live in,โ€ Miller said. โ€œ… Some of my clients are solely Spanish-speaking, so advocating for them within my role is crucial.โ€

According to data from the Migration Policy Institute, approximately 1.2% of are considered Limited English Proficient (LEP), meaning they speak English less than “very well.” The top five languages spoken by these individuals in Mississippi are Spanish, Vietnamese, Arabic, Chinese, and Gujarati. While about 96% of people in the state speak only English, 3.8% speak a language other than English.” This data underscores the critical need for trained interpreters to facilitate access to essential services.

The training also emphasized the risks of using children or family members as interpreters, which can lead to miscommunication. 

โ€œMisunderstandings can have life-threatening consequences, especially in medical settings,โ€ Alford said.

Alford and Miller reiterated the need for credentialing and ongoing education to ensure interpreters can effectively support their communities and provide equitable access to critical services. 

Alford urged community members to recognize the importance of professional interpreters as the need for effective communication in health care and social services continues to grow.

 โ€œEvery voice matters. We encourage anyone interested in making a difference to pursue certification and us build a more inclusive Mississippi,โ€ she said. 

Participants in the training received certificates of completion, signifying their readiness to serve as professional interpreters.


Gabrielle Miller, a housing case manager with the Gulf Coast Center for Nonviolence, takes notes during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Selma Alford, Director of the Bureau of Language Access, outlines training expectations at the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Gabi Gardine, center, collaborates with Monika Lorinczova, left, and Paola Hernandez during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Patricia Namanny, the language access coordinator, discusses ethics and standards during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Keysiann Vega and colleagues participate in a group exercise defining community and medical interpreting during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Monika Lorinczova, left, and Tania Reyes compare notes during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Tania Reyes, from left, Keysiann Vega, Nataly Camacho, and Paola Hernandez work together on a group exercise during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Xuan Tran discusses applying ethical principles for community interpreters to common communication barriers during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Students complete exercises in their workbooks during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Delia Ashley participates in the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Nataly Camacho highlights the definition of a community interpreter in her workbook during the Community Interpreter and Medical Terminology Training in Ridgeland, Miss., on Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2024. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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On this day in 1950

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mississippitoday.org – Jerry Mitchell – 2024-10-31 07:00:00

Oct. 31, 1950

Earl Lloyd Credit: Courtesy of Virginia

Earl Lloyd became the first of three Black players (Chuck Cooper and Nat Clifton were the other two) in the National Basketball Association, paving the way for other African Americans who would follow. 

A native of Alexandria, Virginia, the 6--6 phenom became a defensive star at Parker-Grey High School, nicknamed โ€œMoon Fixer.โ€ He received a scholarship from West Virginia State, whom he led to two tournament championships. He became an All-American, and in 1947-48, his Yellow Jackets were the only undefeated team in the nation. 

Nicknamed โ€œThe Big Cat,โ€ he played his first on Halloween. โ€œThe game was totally, unequivocally uneventful except for the date โ€” Oct. 31,โ€ he recalled later. โ€œMaybe they thought I was a goblin or something.โ€ 

The Korean War interrupted his career before he returned to the hardwood, first with the Harlem Globetrotters and then back with the NBA. In 1955, he helped the Syracuse Nationals (now the Philadelphia 76ers) defeat the Fort Pistons for the NBA Championship. 

He and Jim Tucker were the first African Americans to play on an NBA championship team. As a player, he endured prejudice, both in the arena and out, one Indiana fan spitting on him. In 1968, he became the NBA’s first Black assistant coach with the Detroit Pistons and became head coach in the 1971-72 season. He later worked for the in Detroit, running programs that taught job skills to underprivileged

In 2003, the Basketball Hall of Fame inducted him, recognizing his contributions to the sport. โ€œIt’s easy to be successful when you’re surrounded by the greatest,โ€ he said. 

Four years later, his hometown of Alexandria named its newly constructed basketball court in his honor. The year he died, 2015, he became one of eight Virginians that the Library of Virginia named as the โ€œStrong & Women in Virginia History.โ€ 

The NBA honored Lloyd for his work as a pioneer, but he remained humble. โ€œI don’t think my situation was anything like Jackie Robinson’s,โ€ he said. โ€œI remember in Fort Wayne, Indiana, we stayed at a hotel where they let me sleep, but they wouldn’t let me eat. โ€ฆ Did it make me bitter? No. If you let yourself become bitter, it will eat away at you inside. If adversity doesn’t kill you, it makes you a better person.โ€

This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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