truthout--2020-05-23--Law Firms Plan to Sue Governments for Profits Lost Due to Pandemic Measures

As in any crisis , there will be winners and losers from this global pandemic .
Those paying the price for COVID-19 are becoming more visible every day – from the nurses risking their own lives to save others , to the poorly paid workers toiling overtime to produce food and deliver essential goods .
Globally , we are also starting to see the impact on impoverished countries that have been forced to deal with an unprecedented health and economic crisis .
Some of the winners are also becoming clear – Jeff Bezos , pharmaceutical corporations , tech firms – @ @ @ @ @ @ @ collapse .
But they are just the tip of the iceberg .
Behind the scenes , many companies and international law firms are weighing up the legal options that might enable them to benefit from this crisis .
Their point of entry is not the money they hope to make from this crisis , but rather the money they didn ’ t make due to the emergency measures taken by governments .
The capacity of foreign investors to sue states has been enabled thanks to a global web of investment protection agreements signed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Over 2,600 treaties in force worldwide allow foreign investors to sue states at international arbitration tribunals for government measures that affect corporate profits , including those that protect the environment and public health ; extend affordable access to energy ; clean water or enact better working conditions .
There are more than 1,000 known examples of investors suing states worldwide .
They have skyrocketed in the last decade , and so has the amount of money involved .
Over the past few weeks , law firms specialising in arbitration have presented the unfolding @ @ @ @ @ @ @ revolutionize arbitration and boost and strengthen its virtues ” and “ the beginning of a boom ” .
Lawyers and investors are well aware that past crises – like Argentina ’ s economic collapse of 2001 , the Arab spring of 2011 , or the global financial crash of 2008 – have provided opportunities to sue states , and therefore predict that “ it is almost certain that such instability and uncertainty will result in a growth in the number and types of disputes ” .
In our new report , ‘ Cashing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are preparing to sue states over COVID-19 response measures ’ , we identify more than twenty international law firms who have discussed such cases .
Examples include one firm that has considered the case for investor-state lawsuits against action to provide clean water for hand-washing ( as in El Salvador where families impacted by COVID-19 will not have to pay water bills for several months , and Bolivia which suspended water service disconnections due to lack of payment during the crisis ) .
Other firms have highlighted the potential for claims against measures @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( as in Spain where private hospitals have been taken under public management , or in the US where General Motors has been ordered to produce ventilators ) .
Price caps on medical supplies have also been identified as a target of claims by foreign investors as they “ may dramatically decrease sales revenues even for in-demand products ” .
Economic relief measures for those in need , such as the suspension of utility bills or mandatory rent reductions , could also be challenged .
“ While helping debtors , these measures would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ income , ” one firm warned in a recent client briefing on COVID-19 and international investment protection .
Governments will likely defend themselves arguing that measures taken to protect public health and livelihoods in the midst of the current crisis were legitimate and necessary under extreme circumstances ( ‘ force majeure ’ ) .
However , lawyers have warned “ the plea of force majeure is a very strict one , and States have rarely been successful when invoking it ” .
This line of defence has proved insufficient in the past to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in eleven out of the fourteen cases where Argentina used the state of necessity defence in cases related to the 2001 crisis , arbitration tribunals rejected the argument .
Investment lawyers are already questioning “ whether the extent of the measures imposed is justified , or whether the measures are proportionate to the serious economic damage which they can inflict ” .
These potential lawsuits , and the financial compensation involved , will only add to the already heavy foreign debt burden of countries in the Global South .
By the end of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or agreed to pay investors in disclosed arbitration cases a staggering US $ 88 billion .
This is taxpayers ’ money that has been diverted away from funding for public health , access to food , and employment creation .
Just as the pandemic is revealing profound health and social inequities , it is also showing the dangers of trade and investment agreements that can curtail governments ’ sovereignty and drain limited public budgets .
Governments must act quickly to avert the surge of investor-state arbitrations that may soon be on the horizon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ restriction on legal challenges to government measures targeting the health , economic and social effects of the COVID-19 pandemic – and for an immediate moratorium on investor-state arbitrations more generally .
There is already a draft proposal for an agreement to suspend ISDS claims for COVID-19 related matters .
But ultimately , the only real solution is to terminate the investment agreements that are creating these risks .

As in any crisis, there will be winners and losers from this global pandemic.
Those paying the price for COVID-19 are becoming more visible every day – from the nurses risking their own lives to save others, to the poorly paid workers toiling overtime to produce food and deliver essential goods. Globally, we are also starting to see the impact on impoverished countries that have been forced to deal with an unprecedented health and economic crisis.
Some of the winners are also becoming clear – Jeff Bezos, pharmaceutical corporations, tech firms – companies that are booming while small businesses collapse. But they are just the tip of the iceberg. Behind the scenes, many companies and international law firms are weighing up the legal options that might enable them to benefit from this crisis. Their point of entry is not the money they hope to make from this crisis, but rather the money they didn’t make due to the emergency measures taken by governments.
The capacity of foreign investors to sue states has been enabled thanks to a global web of investment protection agreements signed largely over the last three decades. Over 2,600 treaties in force worldwide allow foreign investors to sue states at international arbitration tribunals for government measures that affect corporate profits, including those that protect the environment and public health; extend affordable access to energy; clean water or enact better working conditions. There are more than 1,000 known examples of investors suing states worldwide. They have skyrocketed in the last decade, and so has the amount of money involved.
‘The Beginning of a Boom’
Over the past few weeks, law firms specialising in arbitration have presented the unfolding global crisis as “a chance to revolutionize arbitration and boost and strengthen its virtues” and “the beginning of a boom”. Lawyers and investors are well aware that past crises – like Argentina’s economic collapse of 2001, the Arab spring of 2011, or the global financial crash of 2008 – have provided opportunities to sue states, and therefore predict that “it is almost certain that such instability and uncertainty will result in a growth in the number and types of disputes”.
In our new report, ‘Cashing in on the pandemic: how lawyers are preparing to sue states over COVID-19 response measures’, we identify more than twenty international law firms who have discussed such cases. Examples include one firm that has considered the case for investor-state lawsuits against action to provide clean water for hand-washing (as in El Salvador where families impacted by COVID-19 will not have to pay water bills for several months, and Bolivia which suspended water service disconnections due to lack of payment during the crisis). Other firms have highlighted the potential for claims against measures to prop up overburdened public health systems (as in Spain where private hospitals have been taken under public management, or in the US where General Motors has been ordered to produce ventilators). Price caps on medical supplies have also been identified as a target of claims by foreign investors as they “may dramatically decrease sales revenues even for in-demand products”.
Economic relief measures for those in need, such as the suspension of utility bills or mandatory rent reductions, could also be challenged. “While helping debtors, these measures would inevitably impact creditors by causing loss of income,” one firm warned in a recent client briefing on COVID-19 and international investment protection.
Governments will likely defend themselves arguing that measures taken to protect public health and livelihoods in the midst of the current crisis were legitimate and necessary under extreme circumstances (‘force majeure’). However, lawyers have warned “the plea of force majeure is a very strict one, and States have rarely been successful when invoking it”. This line of defence has proved insufficient in the past to stop expensive lawsuits. For example, in eleven out of the fourteen cases where Argentina used the state of necessity defence in cases related to the 2001 crisis, arbitration tribunals rejected the argument. Investment lawyers are already questioning “whether the extent of the measures imposed is justified, or whether the measures are proportionate to the serious economic damage which they can inflict”.
A Drain on Public Budgets
These potential lawsuits, and the financial compensation involved, will only add to the already heavy foreign debt burden of countries in the Global South. By the end of 2018, states worldwide had been ordered or agreed to pay investors in disclosed arbitration cases a staggering US$88 billion. This is taxpayers’ money that has been diverted away from funding for public health, access to food, and employment creation.
Just as the pandemic is revealing profound health and social inequities, it is also showing the dangers of trade and investment agreements that can curtail governments’ sovereignty and drain limited public budgets.
Governments must act quickly to avert the surge of investor-state arbitrations that may soon be on the horizon. Experts have called for a permanent restriction on legal challenges to government measures targeting the health, economic and social effects of the COVID-19 pandemic – and for an immediate moratorium on investor-state arbitrations more generally. There is already a draft proposal for an agreement to suspend ISDS claims for COVID-19 related matters.
But ultimately, the only real solution is to terminate the investment agreements that are creating these risks.
Tired of reading the same old news from the same old sources? So are we! That’s why we’re on a mission to shake things up and bring you the stories and perspectives that often go untold in mainstream media. But being a radically, unapologetically independent news site isn’t easy (or cheap), and we rely on reader support to keep the lights on.
If you like what you’re reading, please consider making a tax-deductible donation today. We’re not asking for a handout, we’re asking for an investment: Invest in a nonprofit news site that’s not afraid to ruffle a few feathers, not afraid to stand up for what’s right, and not afraid to tell it like it is.
This piece was reprinted by Truthout with permission or license. It may not be reproduced in any form without permission or license from the source.


truthout--2020-05-23--I’m a Frontline Medical Worker. I Contracted COVID — and It Took My Grandfather.

“ CAC Foreman 8th floor.
” “ Rapid response Klau 4th floor.
” The voice that echoes in my head is the voice that blares overhead every few seconds in my workplace , indicating where to go for yet another cardiac arrest or another patient on the verge of death .
I am a first-year internal medicine resident in New York City , and the physical and emotional toll placed on me is immeasurable .
My attending physician reminds me of someone commanding a battlefield .
I ’ m surrounded by “ allied ” residents ( doctors who had chosen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my floor ) , and “ coalition ” doctors ( students who graduated early to help us ) .
The regular hospital terminology has been replaced by wartime rhetoric .
Unlike soldiers in war , however , none of us ever expected to lose our lives by practicing our chosen profession of medicine .
Being on the front line of a global pandemic at a tertiary care center in one of the most populated cities in the world is surreal and scary .
Until I came down with COVID-19 myself , I was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into contact with , scared that my mask wasn ’ t fitting properly on my face and scared that I would touch it with dirty gloves by mistake .
My face hurt from wearing a mask 13 hours a day ; my head hurt from trying to find a mask in the chaos of people frantically searching for them .
Walking into a shift one morning , I was handed a Yankees poncho to use as a gown .
“ Treat it like gold , ” one hospital administrator said at a weekly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my life .
As the death toll began to spike , I started taking a few seconds out of my day just to hold my patients ’ hands as they neared death .
I closed my eyes and stood in silence in each patient ’ s remembrance .
I reminded myself that tomorrow is never promised .
A few mornings later , I started having fever and chills .
I was in stern denial .
But in reality , this should not have been a surprise .
I was given a Yankees poncho @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I began to hear my 84-year-old grandfather , whom I live with , coughing violently .
What ’ s his O2 saturation ?
How ’ s his breathing ?
These are questions I ’ d asked about strangers a few weeks ago .
Now , I was asking them about my grandfather , as I brought him to the ER .
One of the horrors of being in the hospital during this time is that no family members are able to be by your side .
Meanwhile , in New York , medical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are not enough to look after everyone ; the care for each patient inevitably becomes compromised .
One morning , as I was doing my daily checks on my grandfather , I noticed he was much less alert and responsive .
I couldn ’ t shield him from the hospital any longer .
Day after day , as my grandfather remained in the hospital , I saw him through FaceTime .
Truthfully , I felt blessed to be able to see him at all .
I got to see him and he got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was through a 5-inch screen .
It was our lifeline .
It was also through this screen that I noticed my grandfather ’ s sudden change in breathing one day and no one within reach .
I called out , “ Rapid response !
” as loud as I could into my phone .
Undoubtedly my first over FaceTime .
The truth of the matter is , much of the care that patients receive during this time falls into the already overburdened hands of the people taking care of them .
Most patients @ @ @ @ @ @ @ without feeling the immediate need to rush out .
One of the calls we dread making as doctors is telling a family member their loved one is dying .
That was the call I received when my grandfather ’ s oxygen levels were dropping .
We grow accustomed to making the call as clinicians , but we never expect to get it ourselves .
I rushed to the hospital .
I felt for his pulse .
Slow but faint .
As a doctor , you become desensitized over time .
You frantically think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a body ’ s life , until you realize that body is someone you know .
The physician inside me took a pause , and the human inside me was overcome with emotion .
From the beginning of our training , we strive to separate medicine from emotion .
But when it ’ s your own grandfather lying lifelessly on that bed , you can ’ t help but cry .
I started crying for him , calling his name , nudging him to wake up like I would those early Sunday mornings @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kept getting fainter and fainter .
My one job as a doctor is to keep people alive .
I was failing at that moment .
My one job as a family member was to keep my grandfather happy .
I felt like I was failing at that , too .
“ Time of death , 3:12 p.m.
I ’ m so sorry for your loss , ” the doctor who was caring for my grandfather told me .
Death during this time of pandemic has no dignity .
Patients are not allowed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ No matter which side of the “ I ’ m sorry for your loss ” you ’ re on , you can ’ t help but feel helpless .
Someone deteriorates , someone dies , and on you go to try to save the next life .
A few days later , I prepared to head back to work .
I thought about all the patients I ’ d treated for COVID-19 before I knew that my grandfather would be stricken with the disease .
As I headed into work around 7 p.m. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cheering outside the hospital .
But at that moment , I was no hero .
I had just lost a war .
And I was returning to the battlegrounds that had altered my family forever .
If this pandemic has revealed anything , it ’ s the frailty of the health care system in this nation and the lack of preparedness with which it has left hospitals .
So many of our leaders refuse to support policies that lead to better health outcomes for all .
The result is hundreds of thousands of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s .
Meanwhile , at my hospital , a resident I worked with a few weeks ago is now in critical condition in our ICU .
Still , hospitals are firing personnel for speaking out , nurses are on leave for bringing their own protective gear and physicians are seeing their compensation cut .
Heroic rhetoric means nothing when you are treated almost like a villain .
Society needs to redirect energy to alleviating the struggles of workers rather than glorifying them .
Nobody wants to be a hero right now .
We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day .

We don’t want to be heroes right now. We just want to live another day.
Part of the Series Despair and Disparity: The Uneven Burdens of COVID-19
“CAC Foreman 8th floor.” “Rapid response Klau 4th floor.” The voice that echoes in my head is the voice that blares overhead every few seconds in my workplace, indicating where to go for yet another cardiac arrest or another patient on the verge of death.
I am a first-year internal medicine resident in New York City, and the physical and emotional toll placed on me is immeasurable. My attending physician reminds me of someone commanding a battlefield. I’m surrounded by “allied” residents (doctors who had chosen different specialties but are now deployed to my floor), and “coalition” doctors (students who graduated early to help us). The regular hospital terminology has been replaced by wartime rhetoric. Unlike soldiers in war, however, none of us ever expected to lose our lives by practicing our chosen profession of medicine.
Being on the front line of a global pandemic at a tertiary care center in one of the most populated cities in the world is surreal and scary. Until I came down with COVID-19 myself, I was scared of potential cases I was coming into contact with, scared that my mask wasn’t fitting properly on my face and scared that I would touch it with dirty gloves by mistake. My face hurt from wearing a mask 13 hours a day; my head hurt from trying to find a mask in the chaos of people frantically searching for them.
Walking into a shift one morning, I was handed a Yankees poncho to use as a gown. “Treat it like gold,” one hospital administrator said at a weekly COVID town-hall conference. I feared for my life.
As the death toll began to spike, I started taking a few seconds out of my day just to hold my patients’ hands as they neared death. I closed my eyes and stood in silence in each patient’s remembrance. I reminded myself that tomorrow is never promised.
A few mornings later, I started having fever and chills. I was in stern denial. But in reality, this should not have been a surprise. I was given a Yankees poncho and sent to war.
Then, I began to hear my 84-year-old grandfather, whom I live with, coughing violently. What’s his O2 saturation? How’s his breathing? These are questions I’d asked about strangers a few weeks ago. Now, I was asking them about my grandfather, as I brought him to the ER.
Zaki Azam
One of the horrors of being in the hospital during this time is that no family members are able to be by your side. Meanwhile, in New York, medical workers are stretched so thin that there are not enough to look after everyone; the care for each patient inevitably becomes compromised.
One morning, as I was doing my daily checks on my grandfather, I noticed he was much less alert and responsive. I couldn’t shield him from the hospital any longer.
Walking into a shift one morning, I was handed a Yankees poncho to use as a gown. “Treat it like gold,” one hospital administrator said at a weekly COVID town-hall conference. I feared for my life.
Day after day, as my grandfather remained in the hospital, I saw him through FaceTime. Truthfully, I felt blessed to be able to see him at all. I got to see him and he got to see me, even if it was through a 5-inch screen. It was our lifeline.
It was also through this screen that I noticed my grandfather’s sudden change in breathing one day and no one within reach. I called out, “Rapid response!” as loud as I could into my phone. Undoubtedly my first over FaceTime.
The truth of the matter is, much of the care that patients receive during this time falls into the already overburdened hands of the people taking care of them. Most patients are lucky if providers enter their room without feeling the immediate need to rush out.
One of the calls we dread making as doctors is telling a family member their loved one is dying. That was the call I received when my grandfather’s oxygen levels were dropping. We grow accustomed to making the call as clinicians, but we never expect to get it ourselves.
I rushed to the hospital. I felt for his pulse. Slow but faint. As a doctor, you become desensitized over time. You frantically think of the next steps that will save a body’s life, until you realize that body is someone you know.
The physician inside me took a pause, and the human inside me was overcome with emotion. From the beginning of our training, we strive to separate medicine from emotion. But when it’s your own grandfather lying lifelessly on that bed, you can’t help but cry. I started crying for him, calling his name, nudging him to wake up like I would those early Sunday mornings to come play outside. His pulse kept getting fainter and fainter. My one job as a doctor is to keep people alive. I was failing at that moment. My one job as a family member was to keep my grandfather happy. I felt like I was failing at that, too.
“Time of death, 3:12 p.m. I’m so sorry for your loss,” the doctor who was caring for my grandfather told me.
Death during this time of pandemic has no dignity. Patients are not allowed to have visitors and often die scared. No matter which side of the “I’m sorry for your loss” you’re on, you can’t help but feel helpless. Someone deteriorates, someone dies, and on you go to try to save the next life.
A few days later, I prepared to head back to work. I thought about all the patients I’d treated for COVID-19 before I knew that my grandfather would be stricken with the disease. As I headed into work around 7 p.m., I heard the sounds of people cheering outside the hospital. But at that moment, I was no hero. I had just lost a war. And I was returning to the battlegrounds that had altered my family forever.
If this pandemic has revealed anything, it’s the frailty of the health care system in this nation and the lack of preparedness with which it has left hospitals. So many of our leaders refuse to support policies that lead to better health outcomes for all. The result is hundreds of thousands of needless deaths, including my grandfather’s.
Meanwhile, at my hospital, a resident I worked with a few weeks ago is now in critical condition in our ICU. Still, hospitals are firing personnel for speaking out, nurses are on leave for bringing their own protective gear and physicians are seeing their compensation cut. Heroic rhetoric means nothing when you are treated almost like a villain.
Society needs to redirect energy to alleviating the struggles of workers rather than glorifying them. Nobody wants to be a hero right now. We just want to live to see another day.
Tired of reading the same old news from the same old sources? So are we! That’s why we’re on a mission to shake things up and bring you the stories and perspectives that often go untold in mainstream media. But being a radically, unapologetically independent news site isn’t easy (or cheap), and we rely on reader support to keep the lights on.
If you like what you’re reading, please consider making a tax-deductible donation today. We’re not asking for a handout, we’re asking for an investment: Invest in a nonprofit news site that’s not afraid to ruffle a few feathers, not afraid to stand up for what’s right, and not afraid to tell it like it is.
Copyright © Truthout. May not be reprinted without permission.


truthout--2020-05-23--Immigrants Jailed by ICE Are Winning Court Battles to Get Free

By the time the coronavirus pandemic reached a crisis level in the United States in March , José Velásquez had already spent almost 900 days in Immigration and Customs Enforcement ( ICE ) detention .
A Guatemalan asylum seeker , Velásquez had celebrated his 18th and 19th birthdays behind bars , and , as the pandemic worsened , he worried about making it to his 20th .
Over the course of two years in the notorious Adelanto detention center in California , the teenager had developed serious hypertension , a condition that put him at high risk of dying if @ @ @ @ @ @ @ safety in the cramped conditions of the detention center , his attorneys requested ICE consider paroling him in light of the pandemic .
( Velásquez had never been accused of a crime and had legally asked for asylum . )
ICE refused , even as prisons and jails across the state released prisoners to prevent outbreaks behind bars .
“ They ’ re basically sentencing people to death sentences for breaking immigration laws , ” said Lindsay Toczylowski , the executive director of Immigrant Defenders Law Center ( also known as ImmDef ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has been representing Velásquez as an asylum attorney for two years .
As the pandemic has entrenched itself across the United States , a powerful movement has risen to free people in ICE detention .
Rallying around the motto “ # FreeThemAll , ” organizations like ImmDef , the American Civil Liberties Union and RAICES have joined with other movements to free people from criminal imprisonment as well immigration detention centers .
Across the country , activists have surrounded ICE detention centers in cars and held virtual rallies online — but some of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inside detention centers themselves .
Inside immigration jails , people have organized hunger strikes and work stoppages .
“ We ’ re raising our voices and demanding our rights , ” said Maria* , a Guatemalan asylum seeker detained in Adelanto , who says she joined a short hunger strike in April .
“ We do not deserve to be treated like animals.
” The # FreeThemAll movement has won major victories .
As hundreds of doctors and public health officials warned of the dangers of detention , ICE released over 700 medically @ @ @ @ @ @ @ agency ardently resisted additional releases , attorneys across the country have freed hundreds of other people .
In California , Toczylowski and ImmDef took ICE to federal court to demand the release of José Velásquez and four other medically vulnerable people in Adelanto .
On April 3 , the Ninth Circuit Appeals Court demanded ICE release the plaintiffs in the case , citing the high risk of COVID-19 in the ICE ’ s detention centers .
After almost three years in detention , Velásquez was free .
“ It feels so good to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on a phone call from a motel in southern California .
“ In there , I felt stressed and scared.
” When she read Velásquez ’ s release forms , Toczylowski says she noted a bit of irony : ICE had written it was a “ humanitarian release , ” even though the agency has resisted every step of the way .
To date , attorneys like Toczylowski have freed 324 people using the power of the courts .
ICE has fought the releases .
On its website , the agency has kept @ @ @ @ @ @ @ charges ” that exist for people who judges have ordered released , in an attempt to play up the supposed public safety risks of releasing detained people .
Advocates have responded by affirming that all people in ICE detention are there for civil , not criminal charges — ICE has no authority to enforce public safety , only immigration laws .
Even with hundreds of people freed , people in ICE detention say they still feel incredibly vulnerable .
At least 1,163 people have tested positive for COVID-19 , according to ICE ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have warned that the cramped conditions of detention centers make it impossible to social distance , and medical care — including COVID-19 tests — is hard to come by .
On May 6 , Carlos Escobar-Mejia became the first publicly announced person to die of COVID-19 after catching the virus in ICE ’ s Otay Mesa detention center .
At least 149 people have tested positive for the virus in Otay Mesa , making it ICE ’ s number one hot spot .
One the same day Escobar-Mejia died , Alberto , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ identified by a pseudonym for fear of retribution , said that he and 12 other men in his unit were hunger striking .
Alberto said that even though he knew organizations had won demands , only one man had been released from his unit .
“ We are still fighting for our lives , ” he said .
Despite their fear , people in ICE detention have shared their sentiment of being part of a bigger movement , both inside and outside ICE detention .
In April , José Miranda-Gonzalez , a 22-year-old @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ICE Processing Center in rural Georgia , said that the work of people fighting for those in ICE detention had inspired him not to give up .
“ I just want to say to the people out there supporting us , we know you ’ re doing everything possible , and we ’ re doing everything possible here on the inside too , ” Miranda said .
“ I want you all to know we appreciate you , we appreciate you being in this movement , we appreciate your voices .
We ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they ’ ll have to hear us .
We ’ re grateful to the ones who care about us.
” While hundreds have been freed , the # FreeThemAll is often in a race against time , as ICE has continued to deport people out the country .
In Miranda-Gonzalez ’ s case , help did not arrive in time .
He did not secure a lawyer , and , in early May , he was deported to Mexico , after spending over two decades of his life in the U.S. Today , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We ’ re continuing our hunger strike ; we ’ re united , ” Alberto said from the Otay Mesa detention center .
*Maria requested a pseudonym to protect her from retaliation .

Part of the Series Despair and Disparity: The Uneven Burdens of COVID-19
By the time the coronavirus pandemic reached a crisis level in the United States in March, José Velásquez had already spent almost 900 days in Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention. A Guatemalan asylum seeker, Velásquez had celebrated his 18th and 19th birthdays behind bars, and, as the pandemic worsened, he worried about making it to his 20th. Over the course of two years in the notorious Adelanto detention center in California, the teenager had developed serious hypertension, a condition that put him at high risk of dying if he caught COVID-19. Fearing for his safety in the cramped conditions of the detention center, his attorneys requested ICE consider paroling him in light of the pandemic. (Velásquez had never been accused of a crime and had legally asked for asylum.) ICE refused, even as prisons and jails across the state released prisoners to prevent outbreaks behind bars.
“They’re basically sentencing people to death sentences for breaking immigration laws,” said Lindsay Toczylowski, the executive director of Immigrant Defenders Law Center (also known as ImmDef), a California-based asylum organization. Toczylowski has been representing Velásquez as an asylum attorney for two years.
As the pandemic has entrenched itself across the United States, a powerful movement has risen to free people in ICE detention. Rallying around the motto “#FreeThemAll,” organizations like ImmDef, the American Civil Liberties Union and RAICES have joined with other movements to free people from criminal imprisonment as well immigration detention centers. Across the country, activists have surrounded ICE detention centers in cars and held virtual rallies online — but some of the most robust organizing has taken place inside detention centers themselves. Inside immigration jails, people have organized hunger strikes and work stoppages.
“We’re raising our voices and demanding our rights,” said Maria*, a Guatemalan asylum seeker detained in Adelanto, who says she joined a short hunger strike in April. “We do not deserve to be treated like animals.”
The #FreeThemAll movement has won major victories. As hundreds of doctors and public health officials warned of the dangers of detention, ICE released over 700 medically vulnerable people. But even as the agency ardently resisted additional releases, attorneys across the country have freed hundreds of other people.
In California, Toczylowski and ImmDef took ICE to federal court to demand the release of José Velásquez and four other medically vulnerable people in Adelanto. On April 3, the Ninth Circuit Appeals Court demanded ICE release the plaintiffs in the case, citing the high risk of COVID-19 in the ICE’s detention centers. After almost three years in detention, Velásquez was free.
“It feels so good to be free,” Velásquez told Truthout on a phone call from a motel in southern California. “In there, I felt stressed and scared.”
They’re basically sentencing people to death sentences for breaking immigration laws.
When she read Velásquez’s release forms, Toczylowski says she noted a bit of irony: ICE had written it was a “humanitarian release,” even though the agency has resisted every step of the way.
To date, attorneys like Toczylowski have freed 324 people using the power of the courts. ICE has fought the releases. On its website, the agency has kept a running list of the “criminal charges” that exist for people who judges have ordered released, in an attempt to play up the supposed public safety risks of releasing detained people. Advocates have responded by affirming that all people in ICE detention are there for civil, not criminal charges — ICE has no authority to enforce public safety, only immigration laws.
Even with hundreds of people freed, people in ICE detention say they still feel incredibly vulnerable. At least 1,163 people have tested positive for COVID-19, according to ICE’s official count. Public health experts have warned that the cramped conditions of detention centers make it impossible to social distance, and medical care — including COVID-19 tests — is hard to come by. On May 6, Carlos Escobar-Mejia became the first publicly announced person to die of COVID-19 after catching the virus in ICE’s Otay Mesa detention center.
At least 149 people have tested positive for the virus in Otay Mesa, making it ICE’s number one hot spot. One the same day Escobar-Mejia died, Alberto, a Salvadoran asylum seeker who asked to be identified by a pseudonym for fear of retribution, said that he and 12 other men in his unit were hunger striking. Alberto said that even though he knew organizations had won demands, only one man had been released from his unit.
“We are still fighting for our lives,” he said.
Despite their fear, people in ICE detention have shared their sentiment of being part of a bigger movement, both inside and outside ICE detention. In April, José Miranda-Gonzalez, a 22-year-old who was then detained in the Folkston ICE Processing Center in rural Georgia, said that the work of people fighting for those in ICE detention had inspired him not to give up.
As hundreds of doctors and public health officials warned of the dangers of detention, ICE released over 700 medically vulnerable people.
“I just want to say to the people out there supporting us, we know you’re doing everything possible, and we’re doing everything possible here on the inside too,” Miranda said. “I want you all to know we appreciate you, we appreciate you being in this movement, we appreciate your voices. We’re all getting together, and eventually they’ll have to hear us. We’re grateful to the ones who care about us.”
While hundreds have been freed, the #FreeThemAll is often in a race against time, as ICE has continued to deport people out the country. In Miranda-Gonzalez’s case, help did not arrive in time. He did not secure a lawyer, and, in early May, he was deported to Mexico, after spending over two decades of his life in the U.S.
Today, the #FreeThemAll movement continues. “We’re continuing our hunger strike; we’re united,” Alberto said from the Otay Mesa detention center.
*Maria requested a pseudonym to protect her from retaliation.
Tired of reading the same old news from the same old sources? So are we! That’s why we’re on a mission to shake things up and bring you the stories and perspectives that often go untold in mainstream media. But being a radically, unapologetically independent news site isn’t easy (or cheap), and we rely on reader support to keep the lights on.
If you like what you’re reading, please consider making a tax-deductible donation today. We’re not asking for a handout, we’re asking for an investment: Invest in a nonprofit news site that’s not afraid to ruffle a few feathers, not afraid to stand up for what’s right, and not afraid to tell it like it is.
Copyright © Truthout. May not be reprinted without permission.


truthout--2020-05-24--GOP Wants Cuts to Social Security and Medicare in Next COVID Stimulus Package

A proposal by Sen. Mitt Romney to establish congressional committees with the specific goal of crafting legislative “ solutions ” for America ’ s federal trust fund programs has reportedly resurfaced in GOP talks over the next Covid-19 stimulus package , sparking alarm among progressive advocates who warn the Utah Republican ’ s bill is nothing but a stealth attack on Social Security and Medicare .
Politico ’ s Burgess Everett reported Wednesday that Romney ’ s TRUST Act , first introduced last October with the backing of a bipartisan group of senators , “ is getting a positive reception @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discussions , which are still in their early stages .
The legislation , Everett noted , “ could become part of the mix ” for the next Covid-19 stimulus as Republicans once again claim to be concerned about the growing budget deficit .
Max Richtman , president and CEO of the National Committee to Preserve Social Security and Medicare ( NCPSSM ) , told Common Dreams in an interview that he is not at all surprised to see Romney ’ s bill crop up again and said it should be diligently opposed .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was unveiled last year , warning that—if passed—the measure “ would likely result in cuts to the earned benefits of seniors , people with disabilities , and survivors.
” Richtman noted that in a House Ways and Means Social Security Subcommittee roundtable discussion this week , the idea of establishing commissions to study possible changes to Social Security—though not Romney ’ s bill specifically—was floated by GOP members , an indication that the New Deal-era program is very much on the minds , and potentially in the crosshairs , of Republican lawmakers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bank that Republicans seem to go to whenever it dawns on them that we ’ ve got ta do something about the debt , ” Richtman said , “ notwithstanding the fact that they passed a huge tax cut that added trillions to the debt and benefited mostly wealthy individuals and corporations.
” Speaking to Politico this week , two Republican congressmen—Reps .
Tom Reed ( R-N.Y. ) and Steve Womack ( R-Ark . )
—cited the coronavirus pandemic ’ s possible effects on Social Security to call for a commission to study @ @ @ @ @ @ @ John Larson ( D-Conn. ) , meanwhile , is pushing for an expansion of benefits funded by lifting the payroll tax cap , which would make wealthier Americans pay more .
“ I don ’ t know when we ’ re going to decide to take up the issue , ” said Womack .
“ I hope and I pray that it ’ s not when we have no other real options other than something draconian like big cuts.
” Richtman warned that in the near future the public is likely “ going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ GOP proposals to cut Social Security under the guise of “ entitlement reform ” as the party suddenly rediscovers its concern for the mounting deficit .
“ Obviously this is a way to push in cuts to Social Security and Medicare without leaving fingerprints , or not many fingerprints , ” Richtman said of the TRUST Act .
Romney ’ s legislation—which currently has 10 Senate co-sponsors , including five Democrats—would give the Treasury Department 45 days to present Congress with a report on the federal government ’ s “ endangered ” trust @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ rescue committee ” per trust fund with a “ mandate to draft legislation that restores solvency and otherwise improves each trust fund program.
” “ If a Rescue Committee reports a qualifying bill for its trust fund program , it would receive expedited consideration in both chambers , ” according to a summary of Romney ’ s bill .
“ While 60 votes would be required to invoke cloture for final passage in the Senate , only a simple majority would be needed for the motion to proceed , which would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ role as lead sponsor of the TRUST Act was sufficient reason for activists to raise serious concerns about the bill ’ s intentions when it was first unveiled last year .
During his 2012 presidential run , Romney proposed raising the Social Security retirement age and privatizing Medicare .
Romney ’ s running mate , former House Speaker Paul Ryan , was long considered the poster child for Republican efforts to gut what ’ s left of America ’ s social safety net .
Romney ’ s bill was endorsed by former Republican @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Staff Erskine Bowles , the leaders of the notorious Obama-era commission that—among other sweeping changes—recommended raising Social Security ’ s eligibility age and slashing benefits .
“ The last thing seniors need is for Mitt Romney to get his hands on Social Security , ” Richtman said in October .
Social Security Works , a progressive advocacy group , warned in a tweet on Wednesday that the TRUST Act is “ a plot to gut Social Security behind closed doors.
” The group told Common Dreams that it is closely monitoring Senate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bill .
Alex Lawson , executive director of Social Security Works , said in an emailed statement to Common Dreams that “ at a time when current Republican policy is to let seniors die of Covid-19 by the tens of thousands without lifting a finger to help , it is beyond shameful that Mitt Romney ’ s focus is to rob those same older Americans of their earned Social Security and Medicare benefits.
” “ Romney ’ s TRUST Act would create a fast-track , closed door commission to cut Social Security and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ If Republicans cared about the American people , especially seniors , they ’ d be passing legislation to get PPE to essential workers , help the unemployed , and rush assistance to the nursing homes that are turning into death traps.
” “ Instead , ” Lawson added , “ they are focused on using this pandemic as an excuse to gut our most popular and effective government programs .
”

A proposal by Sen. Mitt Romney to establish congressional committees with the specific goal of crafting legislative “solutions” for America’s federal trust fund programs has reportedly resurfaced in GOP talks over the next Covid-19 stimulus package, sparking alarm among progressive advocates who warn the Utah Republican’s bill is nothing but a stealth attack on Social Security and Medicare.
Politico’s Burgess Everett reported Wednesday that Romney’s TRUST Act, first introduced last October with the backing of a bipartisan group of senators, “is getting a positive reception from Senate Republicans” in coronavirus relief discussions, which are still in their early stages. The legislation, Everett noted, “could become part of the mix” for the next Covid-19 stimulus as Republicans once again claim to be concerned about the growing budget deficit.
Max Richtman, president and CEO of the National Committee to Preserve Social Security and Medicare (NCPSSM), told Common Dreams in an interview that he is not at all surprised to see Romney’s bill crop up again and said it should be diligently opposed.
NCPSSM vocally condemned the TRUST Act when it was unveiled last year, warning that—if passed—the measure “would likely result in cuts to the earned benefits of seniors, people with disabilities, and survivors.”
Richtman noted that in a House Ways and Means Social Security Subcommittee roundtable discussion this week, the idea of establishing commissions to study possible changes to Social Security—though not Romney’s bill specifically—was floated by GOP members, an indication that the New Deal-era program is very much on the minds, and potentially in the crosshairs, of Republican lawmakers.
“Social Security is the piggy bank that Republicans seem to go to whenever it dawns on them that we’ve gotta do something about the debt,” Richtman said, “notwithstanding the fact that they passed a huge tax cut that added trillions to the debt and benefited mostly wealthy individuals and corporations.”
Speaking to Politico this week, two Republican congressmen—Reps. Tom Reed (R-N.Y.) and Steve Womack (R-Ark.)—cited the coronavirus pandemic’s possible effects on Social Security to call for a commission to study the program and recommend reforms. Rep. John Larson (D-Conn.), meanwhile, is pushing for an expansion of benefits funded by lifting the payroll tax cap, which would make wealthier Americans pay more.
“I don’t know when we’re going to decide to take up the issue,” said Womack. “I hope and I pray that it’s not when we have no other real options other than something draconian like big cuts.”
Richtman warned that in the near future the public is likely “going to start hearing more and more” GOP proposals to cut Social Security under the guise of “entitlement reform” as the party suddenly rediscovers its concern for the mounting deficit.
“Obviously this is a way to push in cuts to Social Security and Medicare without leaving fingerprints, or not many fingerprints,” Richtman said of the TRUST Act.
"If history is a guide, retirees should not trust Romney with their #SocialSecurity benefits." https://t.co/9fxgJvXQ1g — Nat. Cmte. to Preserve Social Security & Medicare (@NCPSSM) November 13, 2019
Romney’s legislation—which currently has 10 Senate co-sponsors, including five Democrats—would give the Treasury Department 45 days to present Congress with a report on the federal government’s “endangered” trust funds. Congress would then establish one “rescue committee” per trust fund with a “mandate to draft legislation that restores solvency and otherwise improves each trust fund program.”
“If a Rescue Committee reports a qualifying bill for its trust fund program, it would receive expedited consideration in both chambers,” according to a summary of Romney’s bill. “While 60 votes would be required to invoke cloture for final passage in the Senate, only a simple majority would be needed for the motion to proceed, which would be privileged.”
The Utah Republican’s role as lead sponsor of the TRUST Act was sufficient reason for activists to raise serious concerns about the bill’s intentions when it was first unveiled last year.
During his 2012 presidential run, Romney proposed raising the Social Security retirement age and privatizing Medicare. Romney’s running mate, former House Speaker Paul Ryan, was long considered the poster child for Republican efforts to gut what’s left of America’s social safety net.
Romney’s bill was endorsed by former Republican Sen. Alan Simpson and former Clinton Chief of Staff Erskine Bowles, the leaders of the notorious Obama-era commission that—among other sweeping changes—recommended raising Social Security’s eligibility age and slashing benefits.
“The last thing seniors need is for Mitt Romney to get his hands on Social Security,” Richtman said in October.
Social Security Works, a progressive advocacy group, warned in a tweet on Wednesday that the TRUST Act is “a plot to gut Social Security behind closed doors.” The group told Common Dreams that it is closely monitoring Senate talks and actions related Romney’s bill.
The bill in question is the TRUST Act, and it's a plot to gut Social Security behind closed doors: https://t.co/n4ubqjR26U With seniors most at risk from COVID-19, we need to be increasing Social Security's modest benefits, not creating secret commissions to cut them. https://t.co/2IFtEt7VeD — SocialSecurityWorks (@SSWorks) May 20, 2020
Alex Lawson, executive director of Social Security Works, said in an emailed statement to Common Dreams that “at a time when current Republican policy is to let seniors die of Covid-19 by the tens of thousands without lifting a finger to help, it is beyond shameful that Mitt Romney’s focus is to rob those same older Americans of their earned Social Security and Medicare benefits.”
“Romney’s TRUST Act would create a fast-track, closed door commission to cut Social Security and Medicare,” Lawson said. “If Republicans cared about the American people, especially seniors, they’d be passing legislation to get PPE to essential workers, help the unemployed, and rush assistance to the nursing homes that are turning into death traps.”
“Instead,” Lawson added, “they are focused on using this pandemic as an excuse to gut our most popular and effective government programs.”
Tired of reading the same old news from the same old sources? So are we! That’s why we’re on a mission to shake things up and bring you the stories and perspectives that often go untold in mainstream media. But being a radically, unapologetically independent news site isn’t easy (or cheap), and we rely on reader support to keep the lights on.
If you like what you’re reading, please consider making a tax-deductible donation today. We’re not asking for a handout, we’re asking for an investment: Invest in a nonprofit news site that’s not afraid to ruffle a few feathers, not afraid to stand up for what’s right, and not afraid to tell it like it is.
This piece was reprinted by Truthout with permission or license. It may not be reproduced in any form without permission or license from the source.


truthout--2020-05-24--Tenants in Properties Linked to Jared Kushner Fear Lift of Eviction Ban

It was the day after April rent was officially due — April 6 — and Kevin Maddox was officially late .
The week before , he had lost both of his jobs within a few days of each other .
Both were at food-service warehouses .
“ My job is to get the food to the restaurants , and if no one ’ s going to the restaurants , then I ’ m out of a job , ” Maddox said .
So he filed for unemployment and now stood outside his small rental row house just beyond the Baltimore @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she rode around in her plastic car .
His spirits were relatively high , all things considered .
Both employers told him they ’ d take him back , as soon as things opened back up .
That maybe helped explain why he still wore the cap from one of the warehouses : Maines Paper & Food Service Inc. “ This is tough , ” he said .
“ It ’ s tough .
But I ’ m hoping it ’ ll be over in a month .
They say it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” More than a month later , it is not over .
And there have been few better places to track the economic unraveling and social stress of the pandemic lockdowns than the large housing complex where Maddox lives , Dutch Village , and a handful of other complexes in the Baltimore area owned by the same company .
That ’ s partly because these complexes are home to exactly the sort of workers who have been most affected by the crisis : both those whose jobs are likeliest to have been eliminated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hotel housekeepers — and those whose jobs are likeliest to have been plunged into at-risk overdrive — Amazon warehouse workers , delivery drivers , nursing home aides , cleaners .
Here , there is nary a telecommuting professional to be found .
Here , there is no escaping the upheaval .
The need in the complexes is so great that one of them , Cove Village , has become a main distribution spot for free food from the Baltimore County school department : Every Monday through Thursday , a truck arrives at Cove @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 11 a.m. to 1 p.m .
Families line up for a breakfast , lunch and snack , with an extra set given out on Thursday to tide kids over on Friday .
There is another reason to track the upheaval in these complexes .
It happens that they are owned by the company led until not long ago by the person now tasked with overseeing the federal government ’ s response to the crisis : Jared Kushner , son-in-law of President Donald Trump .
The Kushner Companies , in which Jared still holds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ under scrutiny in recent years for its litigious pursuit of tenants who allegedly owed back rent or broke leases , and for the poor conditions of many of the units .
It was even the subject of a Netflix television documentary that aired just as the lockdowns first went into effect .
But the pandemic has now thrust Kushnerville , which consists of nine complexes in inner-suburban Baltimore County , some with as many as 1,000 units each , into unfamiliar territory .
For years , tenants have learned to dread the aggressive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and court summons slapped on their doors , late fees and “ court costs ” and attorney fees added to bills , and , in some cases , even threats of jail time .
Disclosure of those tactics led to a class-action lawsuit and a lawsuit by the state attorney general .
The Kushner entities have denied wrongdoing .
( A judge this year denied the plaintiffs ’ bid to form a class , which is on appeal ; the attorney general ’ s suit is ongoing . )
Now , though , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ disabled by the temporary ban on evictions .
Without that final stage of the process for forcing payment , the rest of the apparatus has fallen away .
There are , for the time being , no late fees , no “ court costs , ” no summonses on doors .
And even without that threat , many tenants are managing to make their rent , for now , thanks partly to enhanced unemployment benefits and the cash payments in the CARES Act .
Instead , everyone is waiting for the next phase @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when the evictions resume and when the jobs do or do not come back , while contending with the eternal problems at Kushnerville : maintenance breakdowns , mice infestations and water leaks .
And bringing this waiting into particularly stark relief here is the fact that whatever comes next — the strength of the nation ’ s recovery — will depend partly on what can be accomplished by Jared Kushner himself , in his new role , 40 miles down the road .
The same week as Kevin Maddox was watching his daughter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out walking at another Kushner-owned complex 15 miles to the east , Whispering Woods .
The man , who did not want his name used , was heading to the unit where he lives with his fiancée and their child , from the one where her mother and father live , up the block .
Both units were late on April rent .
His fiancée ’ s father was supposed to go back to work on a crew that repaves city roads , but then the pandemic came and shut the work down @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , both had to give up their jobs in the food-service department of a nursing home 20 miles away .
The local bus system was cut back so far that they couldn ’ t get there anymore , and the day care for their child had also shut down .
They had received the same form letter from the Kushner Companies ’ property management arm , Westminster Management , that other tenants in the complexes had gotten .
It stated that rent was still due on the 5th of every month , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the time being .
The company , which declined to comment ( or to respond to a list of tenant complaints cited in this article ) , would also no longer charge an extra fee for paying rent online .
The young man regarded the promised leniency warily .
“ They act like they care about us so much , but they really don ’ t , ” he said .
“ They still want the money.
” Not that he had any particular animus against the complex ’ s owner .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ was .
“ Who Jared Kushner ?
” he said .
Nearby , Steve Williams was walking his dog .
He and his wife , who had lived there for two years , had also been unable to pay on time because he hadn ’ t been working after having a couple of heart attacks and her hours working as a file clerk had just been cut way back as a result of the pandemic .
He had also gotten the letters promising leniency from the management office and was also wary of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , given management ’ s record .
“ I ’ ve been a renter for 20 years , and I ’ ve never seen anything like that , ” he said .
“ I ’ ve never seen someone get put out so fast as around here .
Thirty days , and you ’ re gone.
” With evictions on hold for the time being , though , he was more worried about an immediate concern : bedbugs .
They had been getting worse of late , he said .
The more time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more it seemed as if every other person you talked to had lost their job or had their hours greatly reduced .
And that was representative of broader trends .
The Wall Street Journal reported that nearly 40 % of households earning less than $ 40,000 a year — a category that many in Kushnerville fall into — experienced at least one job loss in March , double the rate in households earning between $ 40,000 and $ 100,000 and triple that of those earning more than $ 100,000 .
A few at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Siera Ford was moving mattresses into her family ’ s new unit at another Kushner-owned complex , Harbor Point Estates .
She was moving into a new unit because a ceiling pipe had burst at her family ’ s former unit at Harbor Point , destroying many of their belongings .
This was the second time this had happened in their five years there , but , she said , at least the managers moved fairly quickly to get them into a new unit .
“ They do accommodate , ” she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ April rent and was confident of being able to pay on time in future months , as well , given her in-demand work as a delivery driver .
“ My job is secure , ” she said .
“ I ’ m Amazon.
” For one Kushnerville family , the bar on evictions had not come in time , and their plight would only worsen as the economic downturn accelerated .
Jennifer and Bob Scrimger had been living at Whispering Woods since 2015 with four children .
She worked as a waitress at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ computer-repair work .
As time went on , they said , they started having more maintenance problems in their unit , especially water leaks , mold and mice .
Troubles came to a head late last summer and fall , when water , apparently from the outdoor HVAC unit , began flowing into the downstairs , ruining the carpet and threatening the furniture .
The Scrimgers put the furniture outside to protect it and management threatened to fine them for doing so .
The mold worsened throughout the house , as did the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a hole under the kitchen sink .
All the troubles started taking a toll on Jennifer ’ s mental health .
She started having panic attacks and stuttering , something she ’ d never done before , and she wondered whether the conditions in the house had a role in her getting bacterial infections on her feet .
Her performance at Chili ’ s started to decline ; she had always ranked high in the customer ratings , which were posted on a big board for all to see , but she now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eventually contacted a Baltimore County inspection officer , who produced a list of needed repairs for Westminster Management , among them repairing a hole in the living room ceiling , replacing the water-damaged kitchen cabinet , remediating mold in a bedroom and addressing the mice infestation .
But by that point , the company had already begun eviction proceedings .
The Scrimgers had been paying their rent — $ 917 , plus about $ 50 in monthly water fees — but the eviction letter from the company ’ s law firm accused them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a workman into the house , for not keeping the house in “ neat , clean , good and sanitary condition , ” and for having people in the house who weren ’ t on the lease .
Jennifer Scrimger disputed the first claim .
She took great offense at the second .
“ They kept telling me it was my dirt , ” she said .
“ I can ’ t make black dirt form on the ceiling .
I don ’ t have that capability.
” And she said that management @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the house .
More likely , she said , the family was being punished for complaining about the house ’ s problems .
Regardless , on Jan. 15 the Scrimgers were out for good , trailed by a nearly $ 2,000 bill of repair charges that Westminster said they owed .
And for lack of alternative solutions , they settled on a less-than-ideal fallback : moving in with Bob ’ s ex-girlfriend , the mother of three of his children , in her trailer in a mobile-home park near Whispering Woods , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They paid the ex-girlfriend , who works the early-morning shift at a convenience store , $ 800 per month to have them .
It was a very crowded fit : four kids and four adults , including the ex-girlfriend ’ s infirm and elderly father .
The Scrimgers had talked about saving up to buy their own trailer in the mobile-home park , since this arrangement was clearly not sustainable .
“ It ’ s a double-wide , but yeah , it is tight , ” Bob said .
And then came @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dreams on hold .
On March 15 , Jennifer worked her last shift at Chili ’ s , which switched to takeout only .
Bob ’ s computer-repair work grew scarce .
Jennifer filed for unemployment benefits , but Maryland ’ s online application system buckled under the heavy demand .
To try to get through , Jennifer would call on the phone , early on Sunday mornings .
Their $ 1,200-per-person CARES Act payment never arrived , they said ; $ 1,450 was claimed to cover Bob ’ s child-support debts for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hung up in bureaucratic limbo .
Meanwhile , Whispering Woods still remains very present in the family ’ s life .
They are in close touch with their friends there , and Jennifer still keeps the binders in which she had kept all of her many communications with Westminster Management and the county inspector , to defend herself against a Kushner claim for the alleged back charges or perhaps provide evidence for her own legal claim against the company .
One evening in mid-April , they sat out in front of the trailer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Her daughter , Lilly , who has since turned 5 , came outside to ask what she was doing , and she told her she was talking about their house .
“ The house we used to live in , Boo-Boo.
” “ When are we going to live there ?
” “ We ’ re not going to move back.
” Two weeks later , on April 29 , Jared Kushner praised the Trump administration ’ s response to the pandemic as a “ great success story ” on “ Fox @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rose to the challenge and this is a great success story and I think that that ’ s really what needs to be told , ” he said .
Kushner predicted a swift economic comeback .
“ May will be a transition month .
… I think you will see by June , a lot of the country should be back to normal , and the hope is that by July the country is really rocking again , ” he said .
The next day , April would conclude with more than 20 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rate since the Great Depression .
The day before that interview , the country had topped 1 million in confirmed coronavirus cases .
On April 28 , another tenant stood outside her unit at Whispering Woods worrying how she was going to make May rent in a few days .
The tenant , a woman in her 30s who also didn ’ t want her name used , had seen her hours at a medical billing company cut in half .
She was one of the many to suffer from the ills of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the surge in demand for COVID-19 treatment was seeing virtually all of its other business fall away .
“ They can ’ t fire me , because they still need me , but they can ’ t afford me , so we ’ re stuck , ” she said .
Her Honda Civic had recently been repossessed , so to get to the office she took Ubers or caught rides with friends .
She had started applying for a second job : Walmart , Amazon , Domino ’ s .
She , too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but she was worried how long that would last .
“ We don ’ t got a voice here , ” she said .
“ It ’ s Trump ’ s son-in-law that takes care of everything , so no matter you do , you ’ re going to get to get beat out in court.
” There were some signs that the company ’ s forbearance was wearing thin .
A few days earlier , a management-office employee had marched down to the home of the asphalt-crew worker to ask when they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ April rent .
His wife told the management employee that they were paying it week by week , a few hundred dollars at a time , just like they always did , even though doing so had incurred late fees before the crisis .
And , as she later recounted , she demanded to know what would come after the eviction ban was lifted .
“ When I give you all this money , are you going to turn around and put me out ?
’ That ’ s what I asked her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up , are you going to be trying to put people out ?
’ If you ’ re going to hound us like that , you don ’ t want us here.
” The management office had also been clashing with Alejandra Polanco , 44 , who had decided to move out after eight years in the complex because she was tired of all the leaks and other maintenance troubles in her unit .
After she had informed them of her plan to leave , she said , the management office had retroactively @ @ @ @ @ @ @ each of the three past months , saying that her prior year ’ s lease had expired .
It was tough for her to make the extra payments , since the seafood restaurant she worked at was now takeout only , but she was planning on paying them .
“ I don ’ t want to hurt my credit , ” she said .
Also scrambling for their next rent payment , $ 950 , were the two young men who now lived in the Scrimgers ’ former unit .
They had been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the year before .
One , Corey Demery , 27 , had stayed on for a job there , driving a forklift at $ 11 per hour , but had lost the job as result of the crisis .
The other , Delvonte Warren , 26 , had a job tryout just before the crisis hit at a Floor & Décor warehouse , but nothing came of it .
He was thinking of getting a job at Taco Bell .
His girlfriend , who also lived with them , was due with their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It ’ s a hard time for it to happen , ” he said .
Around the country , the vast majority of tenants in complexes like Kushnerville were managing to get their April rent paid as the month neared its close .
The National Multifamily Housing Council reported that as of April 26 , 91.5 % of renters in professionally managed buildings had made at least partial payments of that month ’ s rent , down only slightly from 95.6 % in the same month the year before .
The CARES cash @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government had enhanced by $ 600 per week , had served their purpose , at least for those who had made it through the balky application system for the latter .
It was hard to see , though , how the rent-payment rates would hold up in months to come .
For many residents of Kushnerville , the CARES money was already out the door .
The enhanced unemployment benefits were due to expire at the end of July .
And in Maryland , the bar on eviction was due to be lifted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the coronavirus state of emergency .
( There is also a separate federal ban on evictions in buildings backed by federally financed mortgages , which applies to many Kushner complexes .
That ban lasts until July 25 . )
Among those left grappling with the new eviction calculus as the calendar rolled into May was Shayla Milton .
She had given birth to her second child a few weeks earlier , was on maternity leave from her job at one of the two big local Amazon warehouses and was trying to decide whether @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a few weeks .
Her husband worked for Amazon , too , at the other warehouse , but he had stopped going to work because he was so worried about the risk of catching the coronavirus — there had been several cases at his warehouse .
Amazon had for a while allowed workers to skip work without penalty , but that policy had ended May 1 .
Milton had , while on maternity leave , started driving for Uber and was considering sticking with that for now .
It seemed somehow easier @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there , with the windows open and constant sanitizing of her car , than in the high-pressure whirlwind of the warehouse .
Looking around her , Milton wondered what would become of her neighbors after the crisis passed .
“ Once that eviction ban is lifted , ” she said , “ I really think they ’ re going to kick everyone out that hasn ’ t been paying their rent.
” But she and her family were soon going to move out of Kushnerville , she hoped , to buy a small @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the water leaking through the roof and the constant mice .
“ We ’ re supposed to leave in a few months , ” Milton said .
“ I can ’ t wait.
” Even a moment that should have offered hope , or at least a respite — the first full day of a partial relaxation of local stay-at-home orders on May 16 — only brought horror in Kushnerville .
Police responding to a nuisance call in Cove Village after a cook-out shot and killed a 29-year-old local man with a gun @ @ @ @ @ @ @ self-defense ; one witness told The Baltimore Sun the man had dropped the gun and fled . )
Two days later , there were still traces of the violence along the curb : disposable medical gloves and plastic wrappers for defibrillator electrodes and bandages .
Bullet holes were visible in one door frame .
Deja Byrd , who works in a warehouse for the spice manufacturer McCormick ’ s , heard the shooting that night but thought at first that it was firecrackers .
When she learned later what had in fact happened @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Their patience is wearing thin , ” she said .
Did she mean the patience of the police or residents ?
“ Everyone , ” she said .

It was the day after April rent was officially due — April 6 — and Kevin Maddox was officially late. The week before, he had lost both of his jobs within a few days of each other. Both were at food-service warehouses. “My job is to get the food to the restaurants, and if no one’s going to the restaurants, then I’m out of a job,” Maddox said. So he filed for unemployment and now stood outside his small rental row house just beyond the Baltimore city line watching his young daughter as she rode around in her plastic car.
His spirits were relatively high, all things considered. Both employers told him they’d take him back, as soon as things opened back up. That maybe helped explain why he still wore the cap from one of the warehouses: Maines Paper & Food Service Inc.
“This is tough,” he said. “It’s tough. But I’m hoping it’ll be over in a month. They say it’s supposed to be over in a month.”
More than a month later, it is not over. And there have been few better places to track the economic unraveling and social stress of the pandemic lockdowns than the large housing complex where Maddox lives, Dutch Village, and a handful of other complexes in the Baltimore area owned by the same company. That’s partly because these complexes are home to exactly the sort of workers who have been most affected by the crisis: both those whose jobs are likeliest to have been eliminated — casino workers, food-service workers, hotel housekeepers — and those whose jobs are likeliest to have been plunged into at-risk overdrive — Amazon warehouse workers, delivery drivers, nursing home aides, cleaners.
Here, there is nary a telecommuting professional to be found. Here, there is no escaping the upheaval. The need in the complexes is so great that one of them, Cove Village, has become a main distribution spot for free food from the Baltimore County school department: Every Monday through Thursday, a truck arrives at Cove Village and parks on Driftwood Court from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Families line up for a breakfast, lunch and snack, with an extra set given out on Thursday to tide kids over on Friday.
There is another reason to track the upheaval in these complexes. It happens that they are owned by the company led until not long ago by the person now tasked with overseeing the federal government’s response to the crisis: Jared Kushner, son-in-law of President Donald Trump. The Kushner Companies, in which Jared still holds a large financial stake, has come under scrutiny in recent years for its litigious pursuit of tenants who allegedly owed back rent or broke leases, and for the poor conditions of many of the units. It was even the subject of a Netflix television documentary that aired just as the lockdowns first went into effect.
But the pandemic has now thrust Kushnerville, which consists of nine complexes in inner-suburban Baltimore County, some with as many as 1,000 units each, into unfamiliar territory. For years, tenants have learned to dread the aggressive tactics of their landlord: late-payment notices and court summons slapped on their doors, late fees and “court costs” and attorney fees added to bills, and, in some cases, even threats of jail time. Disclosure of those tactics led to a class-action lawsuit and a lawsuit by the state attorney general. The Kushner entities have denied wrongdoing. (A judge this year denied the plaintiffs’ bid to form a class, which is on appeal; the attorney general’s suit is ongoing.)
Now, though, that whole apparatus of intimidation has been disabled by the temporary ban on evictions. Without that final stage of the process for forcing payment, the rest of the apparatus has fallen away. There are, for the time being, no late fees, no “court costs,” no summonses on doors. And even without that threat, many tenants are managing to make their rent, for now, thanks partly to enhanced unemployment benefits and the cash payments in the CARES Act.
Instead, everyone is waiting for the next phase, when the safety-net payments ebb, when the evictions resume and when the jobs do or do not come back, while contending with the eternal problems at Kushnerville: maintenance breakdowns, mice infestations and water leaks. And bringing this waiting into particularly stark relief here is the fact that whatever comes next — the strength of the nation’s recovery — will depend partly on what can be accomplished by Jared Kushner himself, in his new role, 40 miles down the road.
J.M. Giordano for ProPublica
The same week as Kevin Maddox was watching his daughter play outside, another young man was out walking at another Kushner-owned complex 15 miles to the east, Whispering Woods. The man, who did not want his name used, was heading to the unit where he lives with his fiancée and their child, from the one where her mother and father live, up the block. Both units were late on April rent. His fiancée’s father was supposed to go back to work on a crew that repaves city roads, but then the pandemic came and shut the work down. He and his fiancée, meanwhile, both had to give up their jobs in the food-service department of a nursing home 20 miles away. The local bus system was cut back so far that they couldn’t get there anymore, and the day care for their child had also shut down.
They had received the same form letter from the Kushner Companies’ property management arm, Westminster Management, that other tenants in the complexes had gotten. It stated that rent was still due on the 5th of every month, but that there would be no late fees for the time being. The company, which declined to comment (or to respond to a list of tenant complaints cited in this article), would also no longer charge an extra fee for paying rent online.
The young man regarded the promised leniency warily. “They act like they care about us so much, but they really don’t,” he said. “They still want the money.” Not that he had any particular animus against the complex’s owner. He did not even know who that was. “Who Jared Kushner?” he said.
Nearby, Steve Williams was walking his dog. He and his wife, who had lived there for two years, had also been unable to pay on time because he hadn’t been working after having a couple of heart attacks and her hours working as a file clerk had just been cut way back as a result of the pandemic. He had also gotten the letters promising leniency from the management office and was also wary of how much stock to put in them, given management’s record. “I’ve been a renter for 20 years, and I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. “I’ve never seen someone get put out so fast as around here. Thirty days, and you’re gone.” With evictions on hold for the time being, though, he was more worried about an immediate concern: bedbugs. They had been getting worse of late, he said.
The more time one spent at the complexes, the more it seemed as if every other person you talked to had lost their job or had their hours greatly reduced. And that was representative of broader trends. The Wall Street Journal reported that nearly 40% of households earning less than $40,000 a year — a category that many in Kushnerville fall into — experienced at least one job loss in March, double the rate in households earning between $40,000 and $100,000 and triple that of those earning more than $100,000.
A few at Kushnerville that week were feeling more secure. Siera Ford was moving mattresses into her family’s new unit at another Kushner-owned complex, Harbor Point Estates. She was moving into a new unit because a ceiling pipe had burst at her family’s former unit at Harbor Point, destroying many of their belongings. This was the second time this had happened in their five years there, but, she said, at least the managers moved fairly quickly to get them into a new unit. “They do accommodate,” she said.
Ford had already paid her April rent and was confident of being able to pay on time in future months, as well, given her in-demand work as a delivery driver. “My job is secure,” she said. “I’m Amazon.”
J.M. Giordano for ProPublica
For one Kushnerville family, the bar on evictions had not come in time, and their plight would only worsen as the economic downturn accelerated. Jennifer and Bob Scrimger had been living at Whispering Woods since 2015 with four children. She worked as a waitress at Chili’s and he did freelance computer-repair work. As time went on, they said, they started having more maintenance problems in their unit, especially water leaks, mold and mice. Troubles came to a head late last summer and fall, when water, apparently from the outdoor HVAC unit, began flowing into the downstairs, ruining the carpet and threatening the furniture. The Scrimgers put the furniture outside to protect it and management threatened to fine them for doing so. The mold worsened throughout the house, as did the mice, who were getting in through a hole under the kitchen sink.
All the troubles started taking a toll on Jennifer’s mental health. She started having panic attacks and stuttering, something she’d never done before, and she wondered whether the conditions in the house had a role in her getting bacterial infections on her feet. Her performance at Chili’s started to decline; she had always ranked high in the customer ratings, which were posted on a big board for all to see, but she now fell to second from last. She eventually contacted a Baltimore County inspection officer, who produced a list of needed repairs for Westminster Management, among them repairing a hole in the living room ceiling, replacing the water-damaged kitchen cabinet, remediating mold in a bedroom and addressing the mice infestation.
But by that point, the company had already begun eviction proceedings. The Scrimgers had been paying their rent — $917, plus about $50 in monthly water fees — but the eviction letter from the company’s law firm accused them of violating their lease by not letting a workman into the house, for not keeping the house in “neat, clean, good and sanitary condition,” and for having people in the house who weren’t on the lease. Jennifer Scrimger disputed the first claim. She took great offense at the second. “They kept telling me it was my dirt,” she said. “I can’t make black dirt form on the ceiling. I don’t have that capability.” And she said that management had full documentation on which kids lived in the house. More likely, she said, the family was being punished for complaining about the house’s problems.
Regardless, on Jan. 15 the Scrimgers were out for good, trailed by a nearly $2,000 bill of repair charges that Westminster said they owed. And for lack of alternative solutions, they settled on a less-than-ideal fallback: moving in with Bob’s ex-girlfriend, the mother of three of his children, in her trailer in a mobile-home park near Whispering Woods, hard by the Washington-New York Amtrak line. They paid the ex-girlfriend, who works the early-morning shift at a convenience store, $800 per month to have them. It was a very crowded fit: four kids and four adults, including the ex-girlfriend’s infirm and elderly father. The Scrimgers had talked about saving up to buy their own trailer in the mobile-home park, since this arrangement was clearly not sustainable. “It’s a double-wide, but yeah, it is tight,” Bob said.
And then came the shutdowns, which put the home-buying dreams on hold. On March 15, Jennifer worked her last shift at Chili’s, which switched to takeout only. Bob’s computer-repair work grew scarce. Jennifer filed for unemployment benefits, but Maryland’s online application system buckled under the heavy demand. To try to get through, Jennifer would call on the phone, early on Sunday mornings. Their $1,200-per-person CARES Act payment never arrived, they said; $1,450 was claimed to cover Bob’s child-support debts for another child, and the rest became hung up in bureaucratic limbo.
Meanwhile, Whispering Woods still remains very present in the family’s life. They are in close touch with their friends there, and Jennifer still keeps the binders in which she had kept all of her many communications with Westminster Management and the county inspector, to defend herself against a Kushner claim for the alleged back charges or perhaps provide evidence for her own legal claim against the company.
One evening in mid-April, they sat out in front of the trailer, as Jennifer flipped through the binders. Her daughter, Lilly, who has since turned 5, came outside to ask what she was doing, and she told her she was talking about their house.
“About what house?” Lilly said.
“The house we used to live in, Boo-Boo.”
“When are we going to live there?”
“We’re not going to move back.”
“Into a new house?”
“We’re working on it.”
Two weeks later, on April 29, Jared Kushner praised the Trump administration’s response to the pandemic as a “great success story” on “Fox and Friends.” “The federal government rose to the challenge and this is a great success story and I think that that’s really what needs to be told,” he said. Kushner predicted a swift economic comeback. “May will be a transition month. … I think you will see by June, a lot of the country should be back to normal, and the hope is that by July the country is really rocking again,” he said.
The next day, April would conclude with more than 20 million lost jobs and the worst unemployment rate since the Great Depression. The day before that interview, the country had topped 1 million in confirmed coronavirus cases.
On April 28, another tenant stood outside her unit at Whispering Woods worrying how she was going to make May rent in a few days. The tenant, a woman in her 30s who also didn’t want her name used, had seen her hours at a medical billing company cut in half. She was one of the many to suffer from the ills of the health care industry, which despite the surge in demand for COVID-19 treatment was seeing virtually all of its other business fall away. “They can’t fire me, because they still need me, but they can’t afford me, so we’re stuck,” she said. Her Honda Civic had recently been repossessed, so to get to the office she took Ubers or caught rides with friends. She had started applying for a second job: Walmart, Amazon, Domino’s. She, too, had gotten the leniency letters, but she was worried how long that would last. “We don’t got a voice here,” she said. “It’s Trump’s son-in-law that takes care of everything, so no matter you do, you’re going to get to get beat out in court.”
There were some signs that the company’s forbearance was wearing thin. A few days earlier, a management-office employee had marched down to the home of the asphalt-crew worker to ask when they were going to pay their $1,200 April rent. His wife told the management employee that they were paying it week by week, a few hundred dollars at a time, just like they always did, even though doing so had incurred late fees before the crisis. And, as she later recounted, she demanded to know what would come after the eviction ban was lifted. “When I give you all this money, are you going to turn around and put me out?’ That’s what I asked her. ‘When all of this lifts up, are you going to be trying to put people out?’ If you’re going to hound us like that, you don’t want us here.”
The management office had also been clashing with Alejandra Polanco, 44, who had decided to move out after eight years in the complex because she was tired of all the leaks and other maintenance troubles in her unit. After she had informed them of her plan to leave, she said, the management office had retroactively charged her $200 more rent for each of the three past months, saying that her prior year’s lease had expired. It was tough for her to make the extra payments, since the seafood restaurant she worked at was now takeout only, but she was planning on paying them. “I don’t want to hurt my credit,” she said.
Also scrambling for their next rent payment, $950, were the two young men who now lived in the Scrimgers’ former unit. They had been in the same job-training class at Goodwill the year before. One, Corey Demery, 27, had stayed on for a job there, driving a forklift at $11 per hour, but had lost the job as result of the crisis. The other, Delvonte Warren, 26, had a job tryout just before the crisis hit at a Floor & Décor warehouse, but nothing came of it. He was thinking of getting a job at Taco Bell. His girlfriend, who also lived with them, was due with their first child in two months. “It’s a hard time for it to happen,” he said.
Around the country, the vast majority of tenants in complexes like Kushnerville were managing to get their April rent paid as the month neared its close. The National Multifamily Housing Council reported that as of April 26, 91.5% of renters in professionally managed buildings had made at least partial payments of that month’s rent, down only slightly from 95.6% in the same month the year before. The CARES cash and unemployment benefits, which the federal government had enhanced by $600 per week, had served their purpose, at least for those who had made it through the balky application system for the latter.
It was hard to see, though, how the rent-payment rates would hold up in months to come. For many residents of Kushnerville, the CARES money was already out the door. The enhanced unemployment benefits were due to expire at the end of July. And in Maryland, the bar on eviction was due to be lifted once the governor declared an end to the coronavirus state of emergency. (There is also a separate federal ban on evictions in buildings backed by federally financed mortgages, which applies to many Kushner complexes. That ban lasts until July 25.)
Among those left grappling with the new eviction calculus as the calendar rolled into May was Shayla Milton. She had given birth to her second child a few weeks earlier, was on maternity leave from her job at one of the two big local Amazon warehouses and was trying to decide whether to go back when the leave ended in a few weeks. Her husband worked for Amazon, too, at the other warehouse, but he had stopped going to work because he was so worried about the risk of catching the coronavirus — there had been several cases at his warehouse. Amazon had for a while allowed workers to skip work without penalty, but that policy had ended May 1. Milton had, while on maternity leave, started driving for Uber and was considering sticking with that for now. It seemed somehow easier to control her exposure to the coronavirus there, with the windows open and constant sanitizing of her car, than in the high-pressure whirlwind of the warehouse.
Looking around her, Milton wondered what would become of her neighbors after the crisis passed. “Once that eviction ban is lifted,” she said, “I really think they’re going to kick everyone out that hasn’t been paying their rent.”
But she and her family were soon going to move out of Kushnerville, she hoped, to buy a small house. She had gotten tired of the water leaking through the roof and the constant mice. “We’re supposed to leave in a few months,” Milton said. “I can’t wait.”
Even a moment that should have offered hope, or at least a respite — the first full day of a partial relaxation of local stay-at-home orders on May 16 — only brought horror in Kushnerville. Police responding to a nuisance call in Cove Village after a cook-out shot and killed a 29-year-old local man with a gun. (The police portrayed it as self-defense; one witness told The Baltimore Sun the man had dropped the gun and fled.)
Two days later, there were still traces of the violence along the curb: disposable medical gloves and plastic wrappers for defibrillator electrodes and bandages. Bullet holes were visible in one door frame.
Deja Byrd, who works in a warehouse for the spice manufacturer McCormick’s, heard the shooting that night but thought at first that it was firecrackers. When she learned later what had in fact happened, she was not entirely surprised. “Their patience is wearing thin,” she said. Did she mean the patience of the police or residents? “Everyone,” she said.
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