theintercept--2020-09-22--State Department Cut Funding for Controversial "Iran Disinfo" Project — but Kept Working With Its Cr

State Department Cut Funding for Controversial "Iran Disinfo" Project — but Kept Working With Its Creators

the State Department suspended a contract for a counterpropaganda program called the Iran Disinformation Project , widely known by its combative Twitter handle , @ IranDisinfo .
The project had come under scrutiny because , on Twitter , it was dedicating a significant amount of its output to attacking U.S. critics of President Donald Trump ’ s Iran policy .
Within days of complaints being brought against Iran Disinfo , the project was suspended ; by early June , the remainder of the $ 1.5 million contract had been terminated .
But the State Department did not end all its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ organization , the E-Collaborative for Civic Education , or ECCE , which has received nearly $ 10 million from the U.S. government to operate a number of Iran projects over the past decade .
Internal documents obtained by The Intercept show that even after Iran Disinfo ’ s grant was terminated , State Department officials continued talking and collaborating with the co-founder and president of the ECCE , Mariam Memarsadeghi , seeking to use her other U.S.-funded platforms to distribute Trump administration messaging on Iran .
In one document , department officials acknowledged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Tavaana , an online platform for civic education in Iran .
The documents were obtained by The Intercept through a Freedom of Information Act lawsuit against the State Department , with help from Protect Democracy , a nonpartisan nonprofit organization that advocates against authoritarianism in the U.S .
Hundreds of pages of documents offer a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the Trump administration ’ s “ maximum pressure ” policy and the Trump State Department ’ s hawkish rhetoric against Iran .
Over four years , the policy has resulted in significant suffering in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crushing economic sanctions , but failed to achieve the administration ’ s goal of bringing Iran to the negotiating table with Trump or toppling its government .
In the wake of the Iran Disinfo scandal in 2019 , according to internal documents , State Department officials discussed a proposal from the program implementer to amplify Twitter messages from Richard Grenell , a combative Iran hawk and , at the time the documents were created , Trump ’ s ambassador to Germany .
An official at the U.S. Embassy in Germany wrote of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mariam was eager to amplify Ambassador Grenell ’ s social media/Twitter messages in Farsi through the Tavaana platforms , but she also mentioned her organization was also linked to the Disinfo project that was discontinued , ” wrote the embassy official , whose name was redacted in the email exchange .
In a subsequent email , whose senders and recipients are also redacted , another department official seems to give a blessing to the collaboration between Grenell and Tavaana , explaining that the public was unaware of the links to Iran Disinfo .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ media feeds carefully and have not found any inappropriate or out-of-scope behavior .
We don ’ t have concerns with these social media accounts and are still funding them , ” the official wrote .
“ To my knowledge , it ’ s not ( widely ) public or in the press reporting that Tavaana and IranDisinfo are/were run by the same group ECCE.
” Although Iran Disinfo was a separate project , it shared the same leadership and staff with other ECCE projects : Memarsadeghi was the project lead , and Brittany @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Disinfo and Tavaana and remains on at ECCE as deputy director .
( Memarsadeghi , who did not respond to requests for comment , resigned from her position at ECCE in December 2019 . )
In response to a question about their current relationship with the ECCE , a State Department spokesperson said , “ The GEC ended its work with E-Collaborative for Civic Education ( ECCE ) in 2019 following a 2019 review .
The State Department does not currently provide funding to any ECCE programs.
” The State Department , however @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ended its working relationship with the ECCE .
Government grantees occasionally spend short periods of waiting time between finished projects and new grants .
( ECCE did not respond to requests for comment . )
The revelations about attempts to continue its work with a disgraced contractor suggest a determination by the Trump administration to keep pressing its hard line against Iran .
“ It seems that the State Department is playing bait and switch with the American people , announcing they had cut funding to a project that used tax dollars to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ considered not sufficiently war-hungry on Iran , but quietly funding other projects by the same organization under the same leadership , ” said Sarah Leah Whitson , former director of the Middle East and North Africa division of Human Rights Watch .
Whitson had publicly flagged Iran Disinfo ’ s State Department funding last year after the group made a disparaging tweet about Human Right Watch ’ s Iran researcher , who was investigating the negative impact of U.S. sanctions on access to medicine in Iran .
Whitson told The Intercept , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ funding that was meant to counter ISIS propaganda was morphed into funding to silence activists and experts who want to reform U.S. policy on Iran.
” obtained by The Intercept show how many of the State Department ’ s efforts — such as the ones describing efforts to quietly keep the relationship with ECCE going — have been marshaled in the service of pushing a hard-line view of Iran policy .
Diplomatic counterpropaganda resources continue to be poured into pursuing the administration ’ s “ maximum pressure ” campaign against Iran , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In the case of Iran Disinfo , the funds came from State Department ’ s Global Engagement Center , whose mission is to “ recognize , understand , expose , and counter foreign state and non-state propaganda and disinformation efforts.
” “ The Global Engagement Center was designed to protect Americans and democracies from the threat of disinformation , ” said Brett Bruen , former director of global engagement in President Barack Obama ’ s White House .
“ They have failed miserably .
They have done little , even as the danger @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the GEC were used , as in the case of Iran Disinfo and its affiliated Twitter accounts , to wage online campaigns against groups and individuals based in the U.S. — smearing human rights researchers , former political prisoners in Iran , analysts who are critical of Trump ’ s Iran policy , and even Persian media outlets and journalists ( including a reporter on this story ) as “ mouthpieces ” and apologists for the Iranian regime .
“ It has been used by the administration for publicity and the pursuit of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ especially on Iran , ” Bruen said .
“ Astonishingly , those who were targeted included American citizens .
This violates the law and fundamental beliefs about how our country should operate.
” The money given out to groups like ECCE over the years is part of a purported effort to promote democracy in Iran , initiatives for which Congress has appropriated more than $ 515 million since 2004 .
In 2020 , the State Department received $ 55 million from Congress for Iran democracy programs under the rubric of Near East Regional @ @ @ @ @ @ @ NERD-funded programs include online initiatives based outside Iran , due to the Iranian government ’ s deep suspicion of U.S.-funded democracy projects and the security risks posed to those who implement them .
For this reason , the State Department does not publicize NERD activities , grantees , or beneficiaries .
The secrecy has created a funding ecosystem that lacks transparency and rigorous congressional oversight , and is not open to media and public scrutiny that can result in scandals .
“ The Iran Disinfo campaign was a clear example of why we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ operations within the State Department .
It was unacceptable that Americans were being targeted and harassed online , financed by tax dollars for being critical of the Trump Administration ’ s policy with Iran , ” said Rep. Ilhan Omar , D-Minn. , in a statement to The Intercept .
“ I was happy to see the contract cancelled , but it ’ s deeply disturbing to hear that the State Department continued to fund the program ’ s implementers.
” in 2017 , Trump embarked on a reversal of the approach that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exiting the 2015 Iran nuclear deal over opposition from America ’ s European allies , Trump ramped up economic sanctions against Iran and even carried out targeted killings of Iranian military officials .
Efforts like Iran Disinfo are part of the administration ‘ s overall strategy .
Though the public scrutiny of the initiative led to its downfall , the modus operandi of launching personal attacks against critics is typical of the Trump administration ’ s general approach — visible in statements from the president himself , as well as top officials like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ documents obtained by The Intercept give an inside look as the State Department scrambled to deal with inquiries from Capitol Hill and the press about Iran Disinfo ’ s online behavior .
Memarsadeghi , who founded and ran ECCE with her husband , Akbar Atri , has promoted a hard-line view of Iran policy , frequently engaging in the sort of online attacks that became Iran Disinfo ’ s calling card .
In the internal documents , State Department officials even complained about Memarsadeghi attacking their own agency , referring to a tweet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ take a more hard-line stance on Iran during a speech .
The softer stance , according to the emails , turned out to have been a translation mistake .
Officials continued to complain , however , that Memarsadeghi didn ’ t amend her tweets even after she was notified of the translation error .
As scrutiny on Iran Disinfo ’ s combative social media presence mounted , the behavior became a problem for the GEC .
“ It is explicitly prohibited to use public diplomacy funds , which are designed to influence foreign @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said Bruen .
Bruen added that the Iran Disinfo flap reflected a broader problem with counterpropaganda funding in the Trump administration .
“ A recent Inspector General report noted that in most cases , they don ’ t even bother to ask what impact their work is having against the spread of disinformation , ” he said .
“ Instead , they are pretty much just shoveling money out the back of pickup trucks to anyone who says they ’ ll do something about propaganda.
” Memarsadeghi and key members of her team @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the Iran Disinfo project as late as April 2019 , months after the project had started , according to the emails obtained by The Intercept .
An email written by Memarsadeghi on March 28 , 2019 said , “ Several key members of our staff ( myself included ) have NOT been confirmed to be cleared , as well as several consultants we ’ re hoping to work with.
” The email asked for the vetting process to be expedited to avoid future problems .
As public concern over Iran Disinfo ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inside Foggy Bottom .
On May 30 , 2019 , TJ Rodebaugh , a State Department official , sent an email to Lea Gabrielle , a former intelligence official and Fox News reporter who was appointed by Trump to lead the GEC .
Rodebaugh laid out the background of the Iran Disinfo flap , including a timeline , and distributed talking points for the official to use .
“ At 12:15 Scott called the implementer ” — Iran Disinfo — “ to explain that , based on the Scope of Work they agreed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on foreign audiences ( not engaged in online debates with U.S. based organizations ) and should utilize their fact based reporting , documentaries , and briefing packets , ” the email to Gabrielle said .
“ If they can not keep the scope of their activities to that of the project SOW and work plan then they risk the longevity of the project .
The implementer ’ s president , Mariam Memarsadeghi , said that she will immediately contact the account operators and get them back within scope.
” The effort to save @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prove futile .
By early June , the State Department suspended the project under pressure from the media and Congress .
On July 10 , Gabrielle publicly acknowledged in a congressional hearing that the $ 1.5 million Global Engagement Center contract with Iran Disinfo had been canceled .
At around the same time , however , the U.S. official in the German embassy was seeking cooperation from Memarsadeghi to distribute Grenell ’ s statements .
The internal documents also show that the same month , ECCE officials were communicating with the State Department @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they had been invited to apply .
State Department became a machine for promoting the Trump administration ’ s Iran policy , officials at Foggy Bottom remained highly attuned to public scrutiny of their activities .
Internal emails show officials held internal discussions about a 2019 article published in The Intercept titled “ How Voice of America Persian Became a Trump Administration PR Machine.
” The article outlined how the ostensibly apolitical Persian-language outlet had become another tool in Trump ’ s maximum pressure program against Iran .
In a series of emails @ @ @ @ @ @ @ adviser Mora Namdar called the article “ misleading and inaccurate , ” and offered to brief higher-ups about the news story .
Namdar was later installed as acting vice president for legal affairs at Voice of America ’ s parent organization , the U.S. Agency for Global Media .
( In response to a request for comment , the State Department declined to expand on its complaints about the story . )
With the Iran Disinfo grant discontinued , the State Department still had $ 1.2 million of its original budget to spend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from Gabrielle to disburse the remainder of the funds to the Stabilisation Network , an organization that describes itself as being involved in countering violent extremism and has very limited online presence , including a website that does not mention State Department funding .
In a statement to The Intercept , a representative of the Stabilization Network said the group received funding to support social cohesion , youth , and civil society organizations in Jordan .
The group ’ s representative said it does no work on Iran and has no connections to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ related projects .
In late November , months after the public scandal over Iran Disinfo and its subsequent termination , nationwide protests broke out in Iran .
The government cracked down on protesters violently .
Christopher Taylor , a State Department official in the Near Eastern Affairs bureau , wrote to Memarsadeghi to thank her for the “ excellent ” work by Tavaana — the ECCE project then still receiving grant money — in covering the protests .
Taylor also asked if the State Department could forward videos of the protests it received @ @ @ @ @ @ @

In June 2019, the State Department suspended a contract for a counterpropaganda program called the Iran Disinformation Project, widely known by its combative Twitter handle, @IranDisinfo. The project had come under scrutiny because, on Twitter, it was dedicating a significant amount of its output to attacking U.S. critics of President Donald Trump’s Iran policy. Within days of complaints being brought against Iran Disinfo, the project was suspended; by early June, the remainder of the $1.5 million contract had been terminated.
But the State Department did not end all its funding for Iran Disinfo’s implementing organization, the E-Collaborative for Civic Education, or ECCE, which has received nearly $10 million from the U.S. government to operate a number of Iran projects over the past decade. Internal documents obtained by The Intercept show that even after Iran Disinfo’s grant was terminated, State Department officials continued talking and collaborating with the co-founder and president of the ECCE, Mariam Memarsadeghi, seeking to use her other U.S.-funded platforms to distribute Trump administration messaging on Iran. In one document, department officials acknowledged that they continued funding another ECCE project, Tavaana, an online platform for civic education in Iran.
The documents were obtained by The Intercept through a Freedom of Information Act lawsuit against the State Department, with help from Protect Democracy, a nonpartisan nonprofit organization that advocates against authoritarianism in the U.S. Hundreds of pages of documents offer a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the Trump administration’s “maximum pressure” policy and the Trump State Department’s hawkish rhetoric against Iran. Over four years, the policy has resulted in significant suffering in Iran, mostly through the reimposition of crushing economic sanctions, but failed to achieve the administration’s goal of bringing Iran to the negotiating table with Trump or toppling its government.
In the wake of the Iran Disinfo scandal in 2019, according to internal documents, State Department officials discussed a proposal from the program implementer to amplify Twitter messages from Richard Grenell, a combative Iran hawk and, at the time the documents were created, Trump’s ambassador to Germany. An official at the U.S. Embassy in Germany wrote of a June 2019 meeting with Memarsadeghi. “Mariam was eager to amplify Ambassador Grenell’s social media/Twitter messages in Farsi through the Tavaana platforms, but she also mentioned her organization was also linked to the Disinfo project that was discontinued,” wrote the embassy official, whose name was redacted in the email exchange.
In a subsequent email, whose senders and recipients are also redacted, another department official seems to give a blessing to the collaboration between Grenell and Tavaana, explaining that the public was unaware of the links to Iran Disinfo. “We’ve reviewed Tavaana social media feeds carefully and have not found any inappropriate or out-of-scope behavior. We don’t have concerns with these social media accounts and are still funding them,” the official wrote. “To my knowledge, it’s not (widely) public or in the press reporting that Tavaana and IranDisinfo are/were run by the same group ECCE.”
Although Iran Disinfo was a separate project, it shared the same leadership and staff with other ECCE projects: Memarsadeghi was the project lead, and Brittany Hamzy was project manager for both Iran Disinfo and Tavaana and remains on at ECCE as deputy director. (Memarsadeghi, who did not respond to requests for comment, resigned from her position at ECCE in December 2019.)
“Funding that was meant to counter ISIS propaganda was morphed into funding to silence activists and experts who want to reform U.S. policy on Iran.”
In response to a question about their current relationship with the ECCE, a State Department spokesperson said, “The GEC ended its work with E-Collaborative for Civic Education (ECCE) in 2019 following a 2019 review. The State Department does not currently provide funding to any ECCE programs.” The State Department, however, refused to confirm whether it has ended its working relationship with the ECCE. Government grantees occasionally spend short periods of waiting time between finished projects and new grants. (ECCE did not respond to requests for comment.)
The revelations about attempts to continue its work with a disgraced contractor suggest a determination by the Trump administration to keep pressing its hard line against Iran.
“It seems that the State Department is playing bait and switch with the American people, announcing they had cut funding to a project that used tax dollars to attack American human rights researchers and academics considered not sufficiently war-hungry on Iran, but quietly funding other projects by the same organization under the same leadership,” said Sarah Leah Whitson, former director of the Middle East and North Africa division of Human Rights Watch. Whitson had publicly flagged Iran Disinfo’s State Department funding last year after the group made a disparaging tweet about Human Right Watch’s Iran researcher, who was investigating the negative impact of U.S. sanctions on access to medicine in Iran.
Whitson told The Intercept, “The real bottom line here is that funding that was meant to counter ISIS propaganda was morphed into funding to silence activists and experts who want to reform U.S. policy on Iran.”
The FOIA documents obtained by The Intercept show how many of the State Department’s efforts — such as the ones describing efforts to quietly keep the relationship with ECCE going — have been marshaled in the service of pushing a hard-line view of Iran policy. Diplomatic counterpropaganda resources continue to be poured into pursuing the administration’s “maximum pressure” campaign against Iran, with the result being combative public messaging. In the case of Iran Disinfo, the funds came from State Department’s Global Engagement Center, whose mission is to “recognize, understand, expose, and counter foreign state and non-state propaganda and disinformation efforts.”
“The Global Engagement Center was designed to protect Americans and democracies from the threat of disinformation,” said Brett Bruen, former director of global engagement in President Barack Obama’s White House. “They have failed miserably. They have done little, even as the danger grew.”
Instead, funds disbursed by the GEC were used, as in the case of Iran Disinfo and its affiliated Twitter accounts, to wage online campaigns against groups and individuals based in the U.S. — smearing human rights researchers, former political prisoners in Iran, analysts who are critical of Trump’s Iran policy, and even Persian media outlets and journalists (including a reporter on this story) as “mouthpieces” and apologists for the Iranian regime.
“It has been used by the administration for publicity and the pursuit of those who opposed their foreign policy, especially on Iran,” Bruen said. “Astonishingly, those who were targeted included American citizens. This violates the law and fundamental beliefs about how our country should operate.”
The money given out to groups like ECCE over the years is part of a purported effort to promote democracy in Iran, initiatives for which Congress has appropriated more than $515 million since 2004. In 2020, the State Department received $55 million from Congress for Iran democracy programs under the rubric of Near East Regional Democracy initiatives, known as NERD. NERD-funded programs include online initiatives based outside Iran, due to the Iranian government’s deep suspicion of U.S.-funded democracy projects and the security risks posed to those who implement them. For this reason, the State Department does not publicize NERD activities, grantees, or beneficiaries.
The secrecy has created a funding ecosystem that lacks transparency and rigorous congressional oversight, and is not open to media and public scrutiny that can result in scandals.
“The Iran Disinfo campaign was a clear example of why we need more transparency with respect to all operations within the State Department. It was unacceptable that Americans were being targeted and harassed online, financed by tax dollars for being critical of the Trump Administration’s policy with Iran,” said Rep. Ilhan Omar, D-Minn., in a statement to The Intercept. “I was happy to see the contract cancelled, but it’s deeply disturbing to hear that the State Department continued to fund the program’s implementers.”
Mourners attend a funeral ceremony of Iranian Maj. General Qassim Suleimani and others who were killed in Iraq by a U.S. drone strike on Jan. 6, 2020 in Tehran, Iran. Photo: Majid Saeedi/Getty Images
Since taking office in 2017, Trump embarked on a reversal of the approach that Barack Obama took toward Iran. After exiting the 2015 Iran nuclear deal over opposition from America’s European allies, Trump ramped up economic sanctions against Iran and even carried out targeted killings of Iranian military officials.
Efforts like Iran Disinfo are part of the administration‘s overall strategy. Though the public scrutiny of the initiative led to its downfall, the modus operandi of launching personal attacks against critics is typical of the Trump administration’s general approach — visible in statements from the president himself, as well as top officials like Secretary of State Mike Pompeo.
The documents obtained by The Intercept give an inside look as the State Department scrambled to deal with inquiries from Capitol Hill and the press about Iran Disinfo’s online behavior.
Memarsadeghi, who founded and ran ECCE with her husband, Akbar Atri, has promoted a hard-line view of Iran policy, frequently engaging in the sort of online attacks that became Iran Disinfo’s calling card. In the internal documents, State Department officials even complained about Memarsadeghi attacking their own agency, referring to a tweet she shared questioning why Pompeo did not take a more hard-line stance on Iran during a speech. The softer stance, according to the emails, turned out to have been a translation mistake. Officials continued to complain, however, that Memarsadeghi didn’t amend her tweets even after she was notified of the translation error.
“It is explicitly prohibited to use public diplomacy funds, which are designed to influence foreign audiences, to propagandize Americans.”
As scrutiny on Iran Disinfo’s combative social media presence mounted, the behavior became a problem for the GEC. “It is explicitly prohibited to use public diplomacy funds, which are designed to influence foreign audiences, to propagandize Americans,” said Bruen.
Bruen added that the Iran Disinfo flap reflected a broader problem with counterpropaganda funding in the Trump administration. “A recent Inspector General report noted that in most cases, they don’t even bother to ask what impact their work is having against the spread of disinformation,” he said. “Instead, they are pretty much just shoveling money out the back of pickup trucks to anyone who says they’ll do something about propaganda.”
Memarsadeghi and key members of her team had not been vetted for their work on the Iran Disinfo project as late as April 2019, months after the project had started, according to the emails obtained by The Intercept. An email written by Memarsadeghi on March 28, 2019 said, “Several key members of our staff (myself included) have NOT been confirmed to be cleared, as well as several consultants we’re hoping to work with.” The email asked for the vetting process to be expedited to avoid future problems.
As public concern over Iran Disinfo’s activities grew, questions were raised inside Foggy Bottom. On May 30, 2019, TJ Rodebaugh, a State Department official, sent an email to Lea Gabrielle, a former intelligence official and Fox News reporter who was appointed by Trump to lead the GEC. Rodebaugh laid out the background of the Iran Disinfo flap, including a timeline, and distributed talking points for the official to use.
“At 12:15 Scott called the implementer” — Iran Disinfo — “to explain that, based on the Scope of Work they agreed to, their activities should be focused on foreign audiences (not engaged in online debates with U.S. based organizations) and should utilize their fact based reporting, documentaries, and briefing packets,” the email to Gabrielle said. “If they cannot keep the scope of their activities to that of the project SOW and work plan then they risk the longevity of the project. The implementer’s president, Mariam Memarsadeghi, said that she will immediately contact the account operators and get them back within scope.”
The effort to save Iran Disinfo’s public image would prove futile. By early June, the State Department suspended the project under pressure from the media and Congress. On July 10, Gabrielle publicly acknowledged in a congressional hearing that the $1.5 million Global Engagement Center contract with Iran Disinfo had been canceled.
At around the same time, however, the U.S. official in the German embassy was seeking cooperation from Memarsadeghi to distribute Grenell’s statements. The internal documents also show that the same month, ECCE officials were communicating with the State Department about a new grant opportunity for which they had been invited to apply.
As the State Department became a machine for promoting the Trump administration’s Iran policy, officials at Foggy Bottom remained highly attuned to public scrutiny of their activities.
Internal emails show officials held internal discussions about a 2019 article published in The Intercept titled “How Voice of America Persian Became a Trump Administration PR Machine.” The article outlined how the ostensibly apolitical Persian-language outlet had become another tool in Trump’s maximum pressure program against Iran. In a series of emails to various officials, then-State Department senior adviser Mora Namdar called the article “misleading and inaccurate,” and offered to brief higher-ups about the news story. Namdar was later installed as acting vice president for legal affairs at Voice of America’s parent organization, the U.S. Agency for Global Media. (In response to a request for comment, the State Department declined to expand on its complaints about the story.)
With the Iran Disinfo grant discontinued, the State Department still had $1.2 million of its original budget to spend. An October 2019 memo requested approval from Gabrielle to disburse the remainder of the funds to the Stabilisation Network, an organization that describes itself as being involved in countering violent extremism and has very limited online presence, including a website that does not mention State Department funding.
In a statement to The Intercept, a representative of the Stabilization Network said the group received funding to support social cohesion, youth, and civil society organizations in Jordan. The group’s representative said it does no work on Iran and has no connections to Iran Disinfo, ECCE, or other related projects.
In late November, months after the public scandal over Iran Disinfo and its subsequent termination, nationwide protests broke out in Iran. The government cracked down on protesters violently. Christopher Taylor, a State Department official in the Near Eastern Affairs bureau, wrote to Memarsadeghi to thank her for the “excellent” work by Tavaana — the ECCE project then still receiving grant money — in covering the protests. Taylor also asked if the State Department could forward videos of the protests it received to Tavaana, for wider distribution.
“Of course, Chris,” Memarsadeghi wrote back. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”


theintercept--2020-09-22--Did the FBI Downplay the Far-Right Politics of Las Vegas Shooter Stephen Paddock?

the worst mass shooting in recent American history , the FBI has yet to identify a motive explaining what could have driven Stephen Paddock to open fire on a crowded music festival from a Las Vegas hotel window , killing 58 people and injuring many hundreds more .
But the FBI , which has been notoriously slow to recognize right-wing threats in recent years , may have ignored a politically inconvenient explanation : Paddock , in our view , fit the profile of a far-right political extremist bent on sowing violence in society .
Paddock appeared fixated on three pillars @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , threats to Second Amendment rights , and overly burdensome taxes .
For instance , one witness told Las Vegas police that Paddock was “ kind of fanatical ” about his anti-government conspiracies and that he believed someone had to “ wake up the American public ” and get them to arm themselves in response to looming threats .
Family members and associates of Paddock painted a picture of a man who loathed restrictions on gun ownership and believed that the Second Amendment was under siege , according to our review of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other documents compiled by the authorities .
Some violent , far-right extremists , including the attacker in last year ’ s mass shooting at two New Zealand mosques , point as inspiration to the notion of “ accelerationism ” : their desire to create violent chaos in society , even a civil war .
While that term hadn ’ t yet taken hold when Paddock opened fire on October 1 , 2017 — and , as his final act , shot himself dead — his anti-government hostilities , his right-wing ideologies , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him as one of the first in a new wave of accelerationists .
The FBI and Las Vegas police each spent many months searching for a motive in the Las Vegas attack , and both agencies claimed to come up empty in the end .
There was “ no single or clear motivating factor behind Paddock ’ s attack , ” an FBI panel concluded in a report released in January 2019 , and it found “ no evidence that Paddock ’ s attack was motivated by any ideological or political beliefs.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ life , Paddock went to great lengths to keep his thoughts private , and that extended to his final thinking about this mass murder , ” much like many violent lone actors before him .
The FBI ’ s silence on a possible motive is unsatisfying .
Attacks carried out by Muslims and Middle Easterners are routinely labeled as terrorism inside the United States , while many of those carried out by non-Muslims like Paddock — a 64-year-old white man — often are not .
It was not until earlier this year , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that FBI Director Christopher Wray acknowledged , belatedly , that the bureau considered the rising threat of violent domestic extremists to be on a par with foreign and Islamic-inspired terrorist groups like the Islamic State .
Then came the news earlier this month from a high-ranking Homeland Security whistleblower who said he had been pressured to downplay the threat of white supremacists and other intelligence that might be frowned upon by the Trump White House .
Another high-ranking Homeland Security official made the same claim in a Forbes interview last month .
With @ @ @ @ @ @ @ massacre a week away , Paddock ’ s motives deserve closer scrutiny by the FBI and others — not only for understanding the rampage itself , but also for understanding a string of other deadly attacks carried out by right-wing extremists in recent months in response to the ongoing Black Lives Matter protests .
To be sure , factors like Paddock ’ s declining mental health or an apparent downturn in his high-stakes gambling could also have played a part in his twisted thinking that night .
We may never know for certain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ himself inside the Mandalay Bay resort with nearly two-dozen high-powered weapons and commit an act of such horrendous violence .
But consider what is known about Paddock ’ s deep-set political beliefs and grievances on issues like guns and taxes .
Paddock “ had an obsession with guns ” and would become angry when challenged on the Second Amendment , according to Adam LeFevre , who dated the sister of Paddock ’ s partner .
Paddock “ made it very clear he would have no part of gun ownership restrictions , ” said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Paddock ’ s well-stocked gun room during a tour of his home , in another interview .
Indeed , by the time of the attack , Paddock had amassed an arsenal of some 80 firearms , mostly assault-style rifles , in addition to stockpiling ammunition and some survivalist equipment — another glaring attribute of the far right .
“ He was animated about the government and the tax system , ” LeFevre told us in an email .
“ He was outspoken about the inadequacies and waste of the government.
” Paddock ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into his embrace of a number of the debunked conspiracy theories that have helped to fuel a rise in right-wing extremism in recent years , according to the statements collected by the Las Vegas police , as well as interviews with journalists .
The month before the shooting , one unnamed associate recounted to Las Vegas police detectives that Paddock tried to bribe him into selling a gun part used to convert a semiautomatic firearm into a fully automatic machine gun , demonstrating a total disregard for federal firearms laws .
When the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be illegal , Paddock reportedly became enraged and made references to a litany of anti-government conspiracy theories , including supposed plans by the Federal Emergency Management Administration to set up “ detention camps ” of Americans and plans for widespread confiscation of firearms .
Paddock believed that Hurricane Katrina in 2005 “ was just a dry run for law enforcement and military to start kickin ’ down doors and confiscating guns , ” the associate said .
“ He was kind of fanatical about this stuff , ” the associate added , quoting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to wake up the American public and get them to arm themselves.
” Another witness interviewed in the investigation gave a similar account of Paddock ’ s fixation on anti-government conspiracy theories .
A 27-year-old Las Vegas sex worker , who said she spent many hours drinking and gambling with Paddock , described him as “ paranoid ” and said that he would often rant about the American government ’ s orchestration of the Sept. 11 attacks .
Paddock , a high-stakes gambler at Las Vegas casinos , also held views on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ironic , since he had worked for the Internal Revenue Service early in his career .
In fact , the shooter ’ s younger brother , Eric Paddock , believed that Stephen , who was trained as an accountant , had gone to work for the IRS years earlier “ in order to learn how to hide income , ” according to the Las Vegas Metro Police Department ’ s final report on the shooting .
Another brother , Bruce Paddock , recalled that Stephen would “ juice ” the family ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dollars in refunds .
has been reluctant to label many attacks by far-right figures as terrorism , outside academics and researchers who track terrorism have filled that void in recent years , compiling data on the growing amount of far-right violence .
The managers of two exhaustive databases on terrorism incidents — the START program at the University of Maryland , which works with the Department of Homeland Security , and the Center for Investigative Reporting — decided to include Paddock ’ s Las Vegas massacre as an act of domestic terrorism , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it that way .
Trying to decipher the motives of a mass murderer like Paddock is no mere academic exercise ; it is vital that law enforcement officials and policymakers are able to identify warnings signs and institute prevention strategies to try to head off the next attack .
Too often , the system has fallen short , with clear warnings missed — and lives lost .
Understanding Paddock ’ s motivations becomes even more critical in light of the violent responses to Black Lives Matters protests by a number of far-right agitators @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by a passion for guns , extremist ideologies , and a desire to “ wake up Americans ” to their perceived plight .
President Donald Trump , with little evidence , has tried repeatedly to blame antifa and “ left-wing ” protesters for organized violence surrounding the protests .
But in most cases of violence , evidence on the ground so far points instead to far-right , anti-government protesters — particularly members of the so-called boogaloo boys , who believe in conspiracies about the government ’ s confiscation of guns and predict a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have linked the boogaloos and armed , right-wing militia groups to a series of violent episodes , including the fatal shootings of law enforcement officers in Oakland and Santa Cruz , Calif. , the shooting of a Black Lives Matter protester in Albuquerque , N.M. , the killing of two people at a protest in Kenosha , Wis. , and — in Las Vegas itself — the attempted bombing of another protest .
Another far-right group called Patriot Prayer has been involved in a series of increasingly volatile and sometimes violent clashes with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for Trump .
One of Patriot Prayer ’ s members , Aaron Danielson , was shot and killed in a Portland demonstration during an apparent confrontation with Michael Reinoehl , who was later killed by federal authorities in the state of Washington .
Danielson ’ s death is the first known killing carried out by anyone affiliated with antifa during the recent wave of unrest .
Admittedly , the idea that Stephen Paddock ’ s rampage in Las Vegas may have been driven by right-wing extremism still leaves many questions unanswered — such @ @ @ @ @ @ @ music festival as his target or what finally drove him to violence .
After all , there are plenty of conspiracy-minded , gun-toting tax haters who never kill anyone .
Paddock left behind no note or manifesto explaining his actions — unlike a number of recent mass murderers motivated by far-right grievances who wrote screeds that laid out their hatreds .
That list includes Dylann Roof , who killed nine black churchgoers in Charleston , South Carolina , in 2015 ; Patrick Crusius , accused of killing 23 people last year at a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Latinos ; and Brenton Tarrant , who killed 51 people last year at two mosques in Christchurch , New Zealand .
In his New Zealand screed last year , Tarrant , a white supremacist angry at immigrants , wrote of his adherence to the idea of using violence to speed accelerationism and destabilize society , giving the idea a much wider platform on social media .
This violent extremist concept has existed for decades , but those on the far right in the United States — both anti-government extremists and white supremacists — @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in an attempt to foment violence and civil war .
We asked officials at both the FBI and the Las Vegas Police Department whether they believed that Paddock may have been motivated by extreme right-wing ideologies , given what is now known about his beliefs .
The FBI did not respond to repeated requests for comment , and Las Vegas police referred us back to their 2018 review of the attack , which was unable to pinpoint a motive .
In releasing that report , Clark County Sheriff Joe Lombardo said at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ able to answer are the questions of who , what , when , where and how .
What we have not been able to definitively answer is the ‘ why ’ Stephen Paddock committed this act.
” Both of us have examined from a close vantage point the rise of right-wing extremism — and resistance from the federal government in recognizing it .
Daryl Johnson was the author of a 2009 report at DHS on the rising threat , which was retracted under political pressure by Republicans , and he has written two @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has written about the subject extensively over the years , including an article in The Intercept in June about an intelligence report acknowledging the government ’ s failings in confronting the threat of domestic extremists .
People may disagree , based on the evidence , about whether Paddock should be considered part of the rogue ’ s gallery of ideologically inspired , right-wing killers — alongside people like Roof in Charleston and Crusius in El Paso .
But the clues to his political motives certainly merit further review from law enforcement officials to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him to massacre those dozens of concertgoers on that October night three years ago .
The families of the victims deserve it , and the government ’ s efforts to head off the next massacre demand it .

Photo: Mark Ralston/AFP via Getty Images
Three years after the worst mass shooting in recent American history, the FBI has yet to identify a motive explaining what could have driven Stephen Paddock to open fire on a crowded music festival from a Las Vegas hotel window, killing 58 people and injuring many hundreds more. But the FBI, which has been notoriously slow to recognize right-wing threats in recent years, may have ignored a politically inconvenient explanation: Paddock, in our view, fit the profile of a far-right political extremist bent on sowing violence in society.
Paddock appeared fixated on three pillars of right-wing extremism: anti-government conspiracy theories, threats to Second Amendment rights, and overly burdensome taxes. For instance, one witness told Las Vegas police that Paddock was “kind of fanatical” about his anti-government conspiracies and that he believed someone had to “wake up the American public” and get them to arm themselves in response to looming threats. Family members and associates of Paddock painted a picture of a man who loathed restrictions on gun ownership and believed that the Second Amendment was under siege, according to our review of their statements to investigators after the shooting and other documents compiled by the authorities.
Some violent, far-right extremists, including the attacker in last year’s mass shooting at two New Zealand mosques, point as inspiration to the notion of “accelerationism”: their desire to create violent chaos in society, even a civil war. While that term hadn’t yet taken hold when Paddock opened fire on October 1, 2017 — and, as his final act, shot himself dead — his anti-government hostilities, his right-wing ideologies, and his violent rampage that night might qualify him as one of the first in a new wave of accelerationists.
The FBI and Las Vegas police each spent many months searching for a motive in the Las Vegas attack, and both agencies claimed to come up empty in the end. There was “no single or clear motivating factor behind Paddock’s attack,” an FBI panel concluded in a report released in January 2019, and it found “no evidence that Paddock’s attack was motivated by any ideological or political beliefs.” The FBI said that “throughout his life, Paddock went to great lengths to keep his thoughts private, and that extended to his final thinking about this mass murder,” much like many violent lone actors before him.
Paddock’s anti-government hostilities, his right-wing ideologies, and his violent rampage that night might qualify him as one of the first in a new wave of accelerationists.
The FBI’s silence on a possible motive is unsatisfying. Attacks carried out by Muslims and Middle Easterners are routinely labeled as terrorism inside the United States, while many of those carried out by non-Muslims like Paddock — a 64-year-old white man — often are not. It was not until earlier this year, after mounting evidence from outside studies, that FBI Director Christopher Wray acknowledged, belatedly, that the bureau considered the rising threat of violent domestic extremists to be on a par with foreign and Islamic-inspired terrorist groups like the Islamic State. Then came the news earlier this month from a high-ranking Homeland Security whistleblower who said he had been pressured to downplay the threat of white supremacists and other intelligence that might be frowned upon by the Trump White House. Another high-ranking Homeland Security official made the same claim in a Forbes interview last month.
With the three-year anniversary of the Las Vegas massacre a week away, Paddock’s motives deserve closer scrutiny by the FBI and others — not only for understanding the rampage itself, but also for understanding a string of other deadly attacks carried out by right-wing extremists in recent months in response to the ongoing Black Lives Matter protests.
To be sure, factors like Paddock’s declining mental health or an apparent downturn in his high-stakes gambling could also have played a part in his twisted thinking that night. We may never know for certain what would drive a man to barricade himself inside the Mandalay Bay resort with nearly two-dozen high-powered weapons and commit an act of such horrendous violence. But consider what is known about Paddock’s deep-set political beliefs and grievances on issues like guns and taxes.
Photo: Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department/AP
Paddock “had an obsession with guns” and would become angry when challenged on the Second Amendment, according to Adam LeFevre, who dated the sister of Paddock’s partner. Paddock “made it very clear he would have no part of gun ownership restrictions,” said LeFevre, who got a glimpse of Paddock’s well-stocked gun room during a tour of his home, in another interview. Indeed, by the time of the attack, Paddock had amassed an arsenal of some 80 firearms, mostly assault-style rifles, in addition to stockpiling ammunition and some survivalist equipment — another glaring attribute of the far right.
“He was animated about the government and the tax system,” LeFevre told us in an email. “He was outspoken about the inadequacies and waste of the government.”
“He was animated about the government and the tax system. He was outspoken about the inadequacies and waste of the government.”
Paddock’s ardent opposition to gun restrictions bled into his embrace of a number of the debunked conspiracy theories that have helped to fuel a rise in right-wing extremism in recent years, according to the statements collected by the Las Vegas police, as well as interviews with journalists.
The month before the shooting, one unnamed associate recounted to Las Vegas police detectives that Paddock tried to bribe him into selling a gun part used to convert a semiautomatic firearm into a fully automatic machine gun, demonstrating a total disregard for federal firearms laws. When the associate refused because he said it would be illegal, Paddock reportedly became enraged and made references to a litany of anti-government conspiracy theories, including supposed plans by the Federal Emergency Management Administration to set up “detention camps” of Americans and plans for widespread confiscation of firearms. Paddock believed that Hurricane Katrina in 2005 “was just a dry run for law enforcement and military to start kickin’ down doors and confiscating guns,” the associate said.
“He was kind of fanatical about this stuff,” the associate added, quoting Paddock as saying that “somebody has to wake up the American public and get them to arm themselves.”
Another witness interviewed in the investigation gave a similar account of Paddock’s fixation on anti-government conspiracy theories. A 27-year-old Las Vegas sex worker, who said she spent many hours drinking and gambling with Paddock, described him as “paranoid” and said that he would often rant about the American government’s orchestration of the Sept. 11 attacks.
Paddock, a high-stakes gambler at Las Vegas casinos, also held views on the burden of taxes — which might seem ironic, since he had worked for the IRS early in his career. In fact, the shooter’s younger brother, Eric Paddock, believed that Stephen, who was trained as an accountant, had gone to work for the IRS years earlier “in order to learn how to hide income,” according to the Las Vegas Metro Police Department’s final report on the shooting. Another brother, Bruce Paddock, recalled that Stephen would “juice” the family’s tax returns to get back thousands of dollars in refunds.
While the FBI has been reluctant to label many attacks by far-right figures as terrorism, outside academics and researchers who track terrorism have filled that void in recent years, compiling data on the growing amount of far-right violence. The managers of two exhaustive databases on terrorism incidents — the START program at the University of Maryland, which works with the Department of Homeland Security, and the Center for Investigative Reporting — decided to include Paddock’s Las Vegas massacre as an act of domestic terrorism, even though the FBI does not classify it that way.
Trying to decipher the motives of a mass murderer like Paddock is no mere academic exercise; it is vital that law enforcement officials and policymakers are able to identify warnings signs and institute prevention strategies to try to head off the next attack. Too often, the system has fallen short, with clear warnings missed — and lives lost. Understanding Paddock’s motivations becomes even more critical in light of the violent responses to Black Lives Matters protests by a number of far-right agitators who, like Paddock, appear motivated by a passion for guns, extremist ideologies, and a desire to “wake up Americans” to their perceived plight.
President Donald Trump, with little evidence, has tried repeatedly to blame antifa and “left-wing” protesters for organized violence surrounding the protests. But in most cases of violence, evidence on the ground so far points instead to far-right, anti-government protesters — particularly members of the so-called boogaloo boys, who believe in conspiracies about the government’s confiscation of guns and predict a coming civil war in America.
Photo: Alisha Jucevic/The Columbian via AP
Prosecutors have linked the boogaloos and armed, right-wing militia groups to a series of violent episodes, including the fatal shootings of law enforcement officers in Oakland and Santa Cruz, Calif., the shooting of a Black Lives Matter protester in Albuquerque, N.M., the killing of two people at a protest in Kenosha, Wis., and — in Las Vegas itself — the attempted bombing of another protest.
Another far-right group called Patriot Prayer has been involved in a series of increasingly volatile and sometimes violent clashes with Black Lives Matter protesters in its support for Trump. One of Patriot Prayer’s members, Aaron Danielson, was shot and killed in a Portland demonstration during an apparent confrontation with Michael Reinoehl, who was later killed by federal authorities in the state of Washington. Danielson’s death is the first known killing carried out by anyone affiliated with antifa during the recent wave of unrest.
Admittedly, the idea that Stephen Paddock’s rampage in Las Vegas may have been driven by right-wing extremism still leaves many questions unanswered — such as why he would pick a country music festival as his target or what finally drove him to violence. After all, there are plenty of conspiracy-minded, gun-toting tax haters who never kill anyone.
Paddock left behind no note or manifesto explaining his actions — unlike a number of recent mass murderers motivated by far-right grievances who wrote screeds that laid out their hatreds. That list includes Dylann Roof, who killed nine black churchgoers in Charleston, South Carolina, in 2015; Patrick Crusius, accused of killing 23 people last year at a Walmart in El Paso frequented by many Latinos; and Brenton Tarrant, who killed 51 people last year at two mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand.
In his New Zealand screed last year, Tarrant, a white supremacist angry at immigrants, wrote of his adherence to the idea of using violence to speed accelerationism and destabilize society, giving the idea a much wider platform on social media. This violent extremist concept has existed for decades, but those on the far right in the United States — both anti-government extremists and white supremacists — have reinvigorated this concept in recent years in an attempt to foment violence and civil war.
The clues to his political motives certainly merit further review from law enforcement officials to help solve the mystery of what drove him to massacre those dozens of concertgoers.
We asked officials at both the FBI and the Las Vegas Police Department whether they believed that Paddock may have been motivated by extreme right-wing ideologies, given what is now known about his beliefs. The FBI and Las Vegas police referred us back to their 2018 reviews of the attack, which were unable to pinpoint a motive. In releasing that report, Clark County Sheriff Joe Lombardo said at the time: “What we have been able to answer are the questions of who, what, when, where and how. What we have not been able to definitively answer is the ‘why’ Stephen Paddock committed this act.”
Both of us have examined from a close vantage point the rise of right-wing extremism — and resistance from the federal government in recognizing it. Daryl Johnson was the author of a 2009 report at DHS on the rising threat, which was retracted under political pressure by Republicans, and he has written two books on the subject. Eric Lichtblau has written about the subject extensively over the years, including an article in The Intercept in June about an intelligence report acknowledging the government’s failings in confronting the threat of domestic extremists.
People may disagree, based on the evidence, about whether Paddock should be considered part of the rogue’s gallery of ideologically inspired, right-wing killers — alongside people like Roof in Charleston and Crusius in El Paso. But the clues to his political motives certainly merit further review from law enforcement officials to help solve the mystery of what drove him to massacre those dozens of concertgoers on that October night three years ago. The families of the victims deserve it, and the government’s efforts to head off the next massacre demand it.
Update: September 22, 2020
This story has been updated with comment from the FBI that was provided after publication.


theintercept--2020-09-22--Texas Deployed SWAT, Bomb Robot, Small Army of Cops to Arrest a Woman and Her Dog

Monday morning , she went to her job at Planet K , the longtime Austin smoke shop where she was employed as a shift lead .
She had yet to recover , emotionally , from witnessing Foster ’ s murder .
“ I spent two hours on my shift sobbing , ” she told me .
“ I had just seen somebody get shot and killed .
I was pretty much catatonic.
” A little after 10 a.m. , her manager sent her to the bank to break $ 200 into small bills and coins .
She took Optimus Prime @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the city ’ s non-emergency line to report the suspected theft .
Eight hours later , she stumbled across the 4Runner while walking her dog , a chihuahua named Optimus Prime , and redialed 311 to retract the stolen vehicle report .
The operator , Mestas told me , assured her that the 4Runner ’ s vehicle identification number and license plate number would be removed from the police department ’ s stolen vehicle list , and gave her a confirmation number for verification , should she happen to get pulled over .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ she ’ d parked in an ungated portion of the sprawling , 42-building apartment complex , located in far South Austin .
Badly shaken by the shooting , she must have confused the spot , because when she went out the next morning , a Sunday , she couldn ’ t seem to find the 4Runner anywhere .
“ I was not in a good headspace , ” she told me .
“ I thought somebody had stolen my car.
” Two days earlier and not even a mile away , a few @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the center of Austin , Mestas had witnessed an off-duty Army sergeant named Daniel Perry shoot and kill an Air Force veteran named Garrett Foster , who had been at a BLM protest with an AK-47 slung across his chest , pushing his quadruple-amputee fiancée in a wheelchair .
At the sound of gunfire , Mestas and two other young women had fled across Congress Avenue , the main downtown boulevard , and hidden behind a column of the Frost Bank Tower .
In the process , she had accidentally lost her cell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ control to open the gates of her apartment complex .
Twenty-four-year-old Lauren Mestas was already having a bad day when she noticed a cop car tailing her northbound on Interstate 35 , headed into downtown Austin .
She wasn ’ t overly concerned at first , as she wasn ’ t breaking any laws , but the patrol vehicle remained on her tail as she exited onto Riverside Drive , headed west .
She started to suspect that it might have something to do with the slogans soaped all over the windows of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to “ BROWN PRIDE ” and “ BLACK LIVES MATTER , ” written across the rear window were the words “ FUCK THESE RACIST POLICE.
” Like other bystanders , I initially assumed that it was a hostage situation , bomb threat , or active shooter .
The first clue that it might be something more farcical or absurd were the slogans soaped on the windows of the weather-beaten old 4Runner , which the police had so thoroughly surrounded .
From 100 yards away , in the blinding sunshine , I couldn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one rear window I distinctly made out the acronym ACAB , which stands for “ all cops are bastards.
” Every minute or so , a mechanical RoboCop-like voice repeated , “ Driver , exit the vehicle with your hands up.
” The dystopian intonation sounded over Auditorium Shores , where a crowd of people who had been exercising or playing with their dogs had gathered on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle unfold .
One hour after Mestas was pulled over , at 11:40 a.m. , I happened to come across the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my bike around Ladybird Lake , and I counted at least 40 DPS vehicles blocking the south end of the First Street Bridge .
There had to be 80 cops on scene by that time , if not 100 .
The emergency vehicles included a fire truck , an ambulance , and two BearCat armored personnel carriers .
The tactical terminology is worth noting because earlier that very same morning , the Austin Police Department had released damning dashcam footage of officers shooting and killing an unarmed man named Michael Ramos in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this one , had been based on faulty dispatch information .
A 911 caller reported that Ramos and a woman had been using drugs in a parked car , and that he was holding a gun .
Ramos had been spooked by the sight of eight armed officers pointing weapons and screaming at him to get his hands up .
When he tried to flee , one of the officers opened fire with an assault rifle .
APD later confirmed there was no gun in Ramos ’ s possession .
The state trooper @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a second DPS officer , Jason Melson .
Instead of approaching the 4Runner , they drew their service weapons and took cover behind the open doors of their patrol vehicles .
According to Ray ’ s incident report , it was an “ HRS , ” or high-risk stop , also known as a felony stop : a procedure employed when an officer believes that someone in the car has committed a serious crime and could be dangerous .
She panicked , and instead of pulling over , she came to a dead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Street Bridge , blocking the inside lane .
The spot where she braked to a halt might well have been the precise geographic center of Austin , with Ladybird Lake flowing beneath her toward Longhorn Dam , Auditorium Shores and all of South Austin to her rear , and City Hall directly in front of her .
It was 10:40 on a weekday morning , and normally the bridge would have been packed with traffic , but four months into the pandemic , there were hardly any other cars .
It was on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cop car picked up her tail .
The officer , a state trooper from the Texas Department of Public Safety , or DPS , later filed an incident report which made clear that his reason for running a license plate check was that , in his words , “ the vehicle had anti law enforcement rhetoric scribble [ sic ] all over the outside.
” He followed her for a mile on Riverside Drive along the south shore of Ladybird Lake , and waited a full five minutes to hit the siren and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of George Floyd in Minnesota on May 25 , cities across the United States had been convulsed by protests against police brutality , and Austin was no exception .
Like virtually every other big city in America , the lion ’ s share of our municipal budget goes to an increasingly militarized department of police , and all through June and July , there had been rising calls for APD to be defunded , and for the chief to resign .
In response to indications that Austin ’ s relatively liberal city administration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the governor of Texas , Greg Abbott , had deployed thousands of DPS troopers to Austin , as well as to Houston , Dallas , and San Antonio , to combat “ violent extremists , anarchists , and antifa , ” as DPS Director Steven McCraw put it in a June 2 press conference .
“ They just can ’ t help themselves , ” McCraw said of the out-of-town antifa operatives believed to be besetting the city .
I had seen the newly arrived formations of state troopers standing guard around the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this .
The officer who appeared to be the incident commander was a relatively young man with black hair , shiny black cowboy boots , and a black tie under his flak vest , which identified him as a DPS special agent .
Other agencies were present as well .
A U.S .
Marshal in boots and jeans suited up in a bulletproof vest alongside his Ford F-150 4×4 .
Texas Army National Guardsmen patrolled the side of the bridge , lest an amphibious threat come from the paddleboarders on Ladybird Lake .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ held the outer perimeter .
Overhead , a police helicopter circled .
Technicians in T-shirts and camo pants were unpacking a drone the size of a coffee table on the pavement .
A smaller police drone , consumer-grade , already hovered above the beleaguered 4Runner .
I had only been there a few moments when an APD SWAT team arrived .
They pulled up in eight blacked-out Chevrolet Tahoes with all the insignia removed , and commenced to unload an arsenal of military weapons and body armor from big drawers that pulled out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ multiple firearms being locked and loaded echoed from the face of the apartment building across the street .
One SWAT officer with tribal tattoos had his shirt off as he changed uniforms .
A SWAT sniper with a heavy backpack went trotting off in the direction of Aussie ’ s , the sand volleyball bar , presumably to find a shooter ’ s nest in the urban terrain .
A vehicle like a refrigerated truck pulled up , and police technicians placed an antenna on the roof and busied themselves assembling some kind @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The surface of Mars would have seemed a more suitable place for the thing that they eventually rolled out than the First Street Bridge .
It was a bomb robot on a platform of tracked wheels the size of an ATV , bright silver in color .
It must have made some kind of ultrasonic noise when they booted it up , because it set a dog walker ’ s clutch of terriers barking .
Half an hour passed , and nothing seemed to happen .
Under the glare of the midsummer sun @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the motionless 4Runner at a 100 yards ’ distance .
Some bystanders got bored and drifted away or sought shelter in the shade .
A potbellied DPS officer in a felt cowboy hat walked up to those who remained and began to take photos of us with a digital camera .
It was an unexpected thing to do to unoffending pedestrians , and chilling the way he went about it , coldly making eye contact with each person in turn .
But then , it ’ s not for their friendliness that Texas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , we were all wearing face masks , as was he , on account of the coronavirus pandemic .
Shortly before noon , the SWAT team — about two dozen men — stacked behind one of the BearCat armored vehicles and began to advance on foot toward the stationary 4Runner .
Behind them , a line of half-ton police SUVs crept forward at a walking pace , their bright LED light bars flashing silently in the heat .
The two BearCats boxed in the 4Runner , front and rear , and physically sandwiched @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The big gray police drone hovered directly above , like a UFO about to abduct the driver .
Finally , the bomb robot moved in and used its mechanical arm to smash a window that said “ NO JUSTICE , NO PEACE.
” At that point , the 4Runner was completely blocked from view .
It would be another 18 days before I obtained the incident report from DPS through a public records request , and three weeks before I tracked down Mestas and learned from her what happened next .
a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ couldn ’ t understand why the officers didn ’ t approach .
She only saw them standing behind the doors of their cop cars with their guns drawn .
She says she never heard their commands , which they made over a megaphone , for her to exit the vehicle .
Her windows were rolled up , her hands were in the air , and she was too afraid to reach down and switch off her blasting music .
“ They might have thought I had a weapon or something , ” she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ I didn ’ t want to give them any reason to think I was a threat.
” She saw more police cars arriving , many more , which only worsened the incipient panic attack she was suffering .
She told herself that she would not lower her hands , not move a muscle , no matter what happened next .
Optimus Prime could sense her terror .
“ He was trying to comfort me .
He was up on my lap licking my face like , ‘ It ’ s OK @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drone hovering by her window and tried to talk to it .
“ I was screaming at the top of my lungs : ‘ Hey , this is my name , this is my car .
You guys are going to look so stupid after this , when you realize it was you that messed up.
’ ” She couldn ’ t believe it when the armored vehicles crushed her bumpers .
“ I was like , ‘ Are you fucking kidding me ?
’ At this point in time , there were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I ’ m worried about my dog because that ’ s my baby boy , and I don ’ t know if he ’ s going to jump out and how they ’ re going to react .
I ’ m trying to tell them , ‘ Dudes , this is a misunderstanding .
Someone didn ’ t file the paperwork .
I have my driver ’ s license in the car .
I have the case number in my purse written down.
’ They ’ re like , ‘ Don ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ” The SWAT officers instructed her to reach with her left hand and open the door from the outside , step out slowly , and lie face down on the ground .
She was wearing a stretchy black dress and boots , and the hot pavement burned her bare knees .
Next , they had her crawl backwards toward the sound of their voices .
“ They ’ re shouting all this stuff at me : ‘ Go forward .
Now actually back up .
All right , go forward .
No @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Go back.
’ I ’ m like , ‘ What do you want me to do ?
I ’ ll do it.
’ ” She was literally shaking with fear , and could not help thinking of the 2016 killing of Daniel Shaver , an unarmed and unoffending 26-year-old who was mercilessly executed by police in Mesa , Arizona , for failing to follow their confusing instructions— screamed at him like some cruel game of Simon Says — to crawl backwards toward them in a hotel hallway .
Mestas avoided that fate , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her wrists , jerked her to her feet , put her in a black sport utility vehicle , and transported her to the DPS building just north of the Capitol .
The state troopers detained her for the purposes of a “ CID interview ” with DPS ’ s Criminal Investigative Division , charged with investigating organized crime , transnational gangs , active shooters , and other acts of terrorism .
They told her she wasn ’ t being arrested , only detained , and took her into a room where she was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pronounced , he told her , “ like the Bible.
” According to Mestas , Bibler asked her nothing about the 4Runner but grilled her on the subject of Black Lives Matter , her opinion of police officers , and the rioting and looting allegedly taking place in Austin .
“ He was trying to propagate his thoughts on me , ” Mestas said .
“ He was like , ‘ All lives matter.
’ And I was like , ‘ So you agree : Black and Brown lives matter.
’ He ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Blue.
’ At the time , I had some pretty visible self-harm scars , so he was also kind of commenting on that .
And I was like , ‘ Uh , this ain ’ t therapy , dude .
Like , nah.
’ ” DPS and APD told The Intercept that the incident was caused by Mestas ’ s failure to report that she had recovered her car .
311 records , however , show that she did place a second call — as she says she did to retract the stolen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ charges within the hour .
DPS returned her 4Runner with the window broken and both ends crushed .
She was not offered compensation for the damage but was thankful to be reunited with Optimus Prime , who was rattled but otherwise unharmed .
Undaunted by being arrested in so spectacular a fashion , she rejoined the ongoing BLM protests the very next day .
She estimates that she has been to a dozen or more demonstrations since then , around APD ’ s headquarters , the Capitol , and the corner of Fourth @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was shot and now the site of a makeshift shrine .
“ We don ’ t need more police , ” she said .
“ We need more social workers , and EMTs on nonviolent calls.
” She acknowledged that she was partly at fault for the incident on the bridge — she should have pulled to the side of the road and exited the vehicle as instructed — but called the over-the-top reaction “ a complete waste of resources.
” Despite its reputation as a progressive bastion in a conservative state , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ municipal budget — some $ 434 million — on its police force , a more lopsided allocation of resources toward law enforcement than any other big city in Texas .
But there are indications that this could change .
On August 13 , the City Council voted unanimously to cut APD ’ s funding by up to a third .
Although it was a preliminary move that could be walked back , $ 21.5 million in cuts will take place immediately , and it counts as one of the most concrete measures that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in police spending to date .

Twenty-four-year-old Lauren Mestas was already having a bad day when she noticed a cop car tailing her northbound on Interstate 35, headed into downtown Austin. She wasn’t overly concerned at first, as she wasn’t breaking any laws, but the patrol vehicle remained on her tail as she exited onto Riverside Drive, headed west. She started to suspect that it might have something to do with the slogans soaped all over the windows of her 2001 Toyota 4Runner. In addition to “BROWN PRIDE” and “BLACK LIVES MATTER,” written across the rear window were the words “FUCK THESE RACIST POLICE.”
Two days earlier and not even a mile away, a few blocks south of the Texas Capitol in the center of Austin, Mestas had witnessed an off-duty Army sergeant named Daniel Perry shoot and kill an Air Force veteran named Garrett Foster, who had been at a BLM protest with an AK-47 slung across his chest, pushing his quadruple-amputee fiancée in a wheelchair. At the sound of gunfire, Mestas and two other young women had fled across Congress Avenue, the main downtown boulevard, and hidden behind a column of the Frost Bank Tower. In the process, she had accidentally lost her cell phone, as well as the remote control to open the gates of her apartment complex.
That night, on arriving home, she’d parked in an ungated portion of the sprawling, 42-building apartment complex, located in far South Austin. Badly shaken by the shooting, she must have confused the spot, because when she went out the next morning, a Sunday, she couldn’t seem to find the 4Runner anywhere. “I was not in a good headspace,” she told me. “I thought somebody had stolen my car.”
She called the city’s non-emergency line to report the suspected theft. Eight hours later, she stumbled across the 4Runner while walking her dog, a chihuahua named Optimus Prime, and redialed 311 to retract the stolen vehicle report. The operator, Mestas told me, assured her that the 4Runner’s vehicle identification number and license plate number would be removed from the police department’s stolen vehicle list, and gave her a confirmation number for verification, should she happen to get pulled over.
Monday morning, she went to her job at Planet K, the longtime Austin smoke shop where she was employed as a shift lead. She had yet to recover, emotionally, from witnessing Foster’s murder. “I spent two hours on my shift sobbing,” she told me. “I had just seen somebody get shot and killed. I was pretty much catatonic.” A little after 10 a.m., her manager sent her to the bank to break $200 into small bills and coins. She took Optimus Prime with her for company.
It was on the way to the bank that the cop car picked up her tail. The officer, a state trooper from the Texas Department of Public Safety, or DPS, later filed an incident report which made clear that his reason for running a license plate check was that, in his words, “the vehicle had anti law enforcement rhetoric scribble [sic] all over the outside.” He followed her for a mile on Riverside Drive along the south shore of Ladybird Lake, and waited a full five minutes to hit the siren and lights.
“Oh my God,” Mestas thought, surmising what must have happened. “They think I stole my car.”
She panicked, and instead of pulling over, she came to a dead stop in the middle of the First Street Bridge, blocking the inside lane. The spot where she braked to a halt might well have been the precise geographic center of Austin, with Ladybird Lake flowing beneath her toward Longhorn Dam, Auditorium Shores and all of South Austin to her rear, and City Hall directly in front of her. It was 10:40 on a weekday morning, and normally the bridge would have been packed with traffic, but four months into the pandemic, there were hardly any other cars.
The state trooper, Garrett Ray, was joined by a second DPS officer, Jason Melson. Instead of approaching the 4Runner, they drew their service weapons and took cover behind the open doors of their patrol vehicles. According to Ray’s incident report, it was an “HRS,” or high-risk stop, also known as a felony stop: a procedure employed when an officer believes that someone in the car has committed a serious crime and could be dangerous.
The tactical terminology is worth noting because earlier that very same morning, the Austin Police Department had released damning dashcam footage of officers shooting and killing an unarmed man named Michael Ramos in a high-risk or felony stop that, like this one, had been based on faulty dispatch information. A 911 caller reported that Ramos and a woman had been using drugs in a parked car, and that he was holding a gun. Ramos had been spooked by the sight of eight armed officers pointing weapons and screaming at him to get his hands up. When he tried to flee, one of the officers opened fire with an assault rifle. APD later confirmed there was no gun in Ramos’s possession.
One hour after Mestas was pulled over, at 11:40 a.m., I happened to come across the scene by accident. I was riding my bike around Ladybird Lake, and I counted at least 40 DPS vehicles blocking the south end of the First Street Bridge. There had to be 80 cops on scene by that time, if not 100. The emergency vehicles included a fire truck, an ambulance, and two BearCat armored personnel carriers.
Every minute or so, a mechanical RoboCop-like voice repeated, “Driver, exit the vehicle with your hands up.” The dystopian intonation sounded over Auditorium Shores, where a crowd of people who had been exercising or playing with their dogs had gathered on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle unfold.
Like other bystanders, I initially assumed that it was a hostage situation, bomb threat, or active shooter. The first clue that it might be something more farcical or absurd were the slogans soaped on the windows of the weather-beaten old 4Runner, which the police had so thoroughly surrounded. From 100 yards away, in the blinding sunshine, I couldn’t quite read them, but on one rear window I distinctly made out the acronym ACAB, which stands for “all cops are bastards.”
Texas Gov. Greg Abbott speaks to media during the final public viewing of George Floyd at the Fountain of Praise Church in Houston, Texas, on June 8, 2020. Photo: Montinique Monroe/Anadolu Agency via Getty Images
Ever since the police killing of George Floyd in Minnesota on May 25, cities across the United States had been convulsed by protests against police brutality, and Austin was no exception. Like virtually every other big city in America, the lion’s share of our municipal budget goes to an increasingly militarized department of police, and all through June and July, there had been rising calls for APD to be defunded, and for the chief to resign. In response to indications that Austin’s relatively liberal city administration would give in to protester demands, the governor of Texas, Greg Abbott, had deployed thousands of DPS troopers to Austin, as well as to Houston, Dallas, and San Antonio, to combat “violent extremists, anarchists, and antifa,” as DPS Director Steven McCraw put it in a June 2 press conference. “They just can’t help themselves,” McCraw said of the out-of-town antifa operatives believed to be besetting the city.
I had seen the newly arrived formations of state troopers standing guard around the Capitol but never out in force like this. The officer who appeared to be the incident commander was a relatively young man with black hair, shiny black cowboy boots, and a black tie under his flak vest, which identified him as a DPS special agent.
Other agencies were present as well. A U.S. Marshal in boots and jeans suited up in a bulletproof vest alongside his Ford F-150 4×4. Texas Army National Guardsmen patrolled the side of the bridge, lest an amphibious threat come from the paddleboarders on Ladybird Lake. City bike cops in blue polo shirts held the outer perimeter.
Overhead, a police helicopter circled. Technicians in T-shirts and camo pants were unpacking a drone the size of a coffee table on the pavement. A smaller police drone, consumer-grade, already hovered above the beleaguered 4Runner.
I had only been there a few moments when an APD SWAT team arrived. They pulled up in eight blacked-out Chevrolet Tahoes with all the insignia removed, and commenced to unload an arsenal of military weapons and body armor from big drawers that pulled out of the beds. The sound of multiple firearms being locked and loaded echoed from the face of the apartment building across the street. One SWAT officer with tribal tattoos had his shirt off as he changed uniforms. A SWAT sniper with a heavy backpack went trotting off in the direction of Aussie’s, the sand volleyball bar, presumably to find a shooter’s nest in the urban terrain.
A vehicle like a refrigerated truck pulled up, and police technicians placed an antenna on the roof and busied themselves assembling some kind of machine in the cargo area. The surface of Mars would have seemed a more suitable place for the thing that they eventually rolled out than the First Street Bridge. It was a bomb robot on a platform of tracked wheels the size of an ATV, bright silver in color. It must have made some kind of ultrasonic noise when they booted it up, because it set a dog walker’s clutch of terriers barking.
Half an hour passed, and nothing seemed to happen. Under the glare of the midsummer sun, it was impossible to see inside the motionless 4Runner at a 100 yards’ distance. Some bystanders got bored and drifted away or sought shelter in the shade.
A potbellied DPS officer in a felt cowboy hat walked up to those who remained and began to take photos of us with a digital camera. It was an unexpected thing to do to unoffending pedestrians, and chilling the way he went about it, coldly making eye contact with each person in turn. But then, it’s not for their friendliness that Texas state troopers are so famous. Anyway, we were all wearing face masks, as was he, on account of the coronavirus pandemic.
Shortly before noon, the SWAT team — about two dozen men — stacked behind one of the BearCat armored vehicles and began to advance on foot toward the stationary 4Runner. Behind them, a line of half-ton police SUVs crept forward at a walking pace, their bright LED light bars flashing silently in the heat. The two BearCats boxed in the 4Runner, front and rear, and physically sandwiched it in place, crushing both bumpers. The big gray police drone hovered directly above, like a UFO about to abduct the driver. Finally, the bomb robot moved in and used its mechanical arm to smash a window that said “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE.”
At that point, the 4Runner was completely blocked from view. It would be another 18 days before I obtained the incident report from DPS through a public records request, and three weeks before I tracked down Mestas and learned from her what happened next.
After coming to a stop, Mestas told me, she couldn’t understand why the officers didn’t approach. She only saw them standing behind the doors of their cop cars with their guns drawn. She says she never heard their commands, which they made over a megaphone, for her to exit the vehicle. Her windows were rolled up, her hands were in the air, and she was too afraid to reach down and switch off her blasting music. “They might have thought I had a weapon or something,” she explained. As a first-generation Mexican American, “I didn’t want to give them any reason to think I was a threat.”
She saw more police cars arriving, many more, which only worsened the incipient panic attack she was suffering. She told herself that she would not lower her hands, not move a muscle, no matter what happened next. Optimus Prime could sense her terror. “He was trying to comfort me. He was up on my lap licking my face like, ‘It’s OK, mom.’”
She saw the drone hovering by her window and tried to talk to it. “I was screaming at the top of my lungs: ‘Hey, this is my name, this is my car. You guys are going to look so stupid after this, when you realize it was you that messed up.’”
She couldn’t believe it when the armored vehicles crushed her bumpers. “I was like, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ At this point in time, there were dudes in military gear all around me. I’m worried about my dog because that’s my baby boy, and I don’t know if he’s going to jump out and how they’re going to react. I’m trying to tell them, ‘Dudes, this is a misunderstanding. Someone didn’t file the paperwork. I have my driver’s license in the car. I have the case number in my purse written down.’ They’re like, ‘Don’t talk, don’t talk.’”
The SWAT officers instructed her to reach with her left hand and open the door from the outside, step out slowly, and lie face down on the ground. She was wearing a stretchy black dress and boots, and the hot pavement burned her bare knees. Next, they had her crawl backwards toward the sound of their voices. “They’re shouting all this stuff at me: ‘Go forward. Now actually back up. All right, go forward. No, no, no, wrong. Go back.’ I’m like, ‘What do you want me to do? I’ll do it.’”
She was literally shaking with fear, and could not help thinking of the 2016 killing of Daniel Shaver, an unarmed and unoffending 26-year-old who was mercilessly executed by police in Mesa, Arizona, for failing to follow their confusing instructions— screamed at him like some cruel game of Simon Says — to crawl backwards toward them in a hotel hallway.
Mestas avoided that fate, at least. The SWAT officers zip-tied her wrists, jerked her to her feet, put her in a black sport utility vehicle, and transported her to the DPS building just north of the Capitol. The state troopers detained her for the purposes of a “CID interview” with DPS’s Criminal Investigative Division, charged with investigating organized crime, transnational gangs, active shooters, and other acts of terrorism. They told her she wasn’t being arrested, only detained, and took her into a room where she was interrogated by a detective named Bibler — pronounced, he told her, “like the Bible.”
According to Mestas, Bibler asked her nothing about the 4Runner but grilled her on the subject of Black Lives Matter, her opinion of police officers, and the rioting and looting allegedly taking place in Austin. “He was trying to propagate his thoughts on me,” Mestas said. “He was like, ‘All lives matter.’ And I was like, ‘So you agree: Black and Brown lives matter.’ He’s like, ‘And Green and Blue.’ At the time, I had some pretty visible self-harm scars, so he was also kind of commenting on that. And I was like, ‘Uh, this ain’t therapy, dude. Like, nah.’”
DPS and APD told The Intercept that the incident was caused by Mestas’s failure to report that she had recovered her car. 311 records, however, show that she did place a second call — as she says she did to retract the stolen vehicle report.
She was released without charges within the hour. DPS returned her 4Runner with the window broken and both ends crushed. She was not offered compensation for the damage but was thankful to be reunited with Optimus Prime, who was rattled but otherwise unharmed.
Undaunted by being arrested in so spectacular a fashion, she rejoined the ongoing BLM protests the very next day. She estimates that she has been to a dozen or more demonstrations since then, around APD’s headquarters, the Capitol, and the corner of Fourth and Congress — the spot where Foster was shot and now the site of a makeshift shrine. “We don’t need more police,” she said. “We need more social workers, and EMTs on nonviolent calls.” She acknowledged that she was partly at fault for the incident on the bridge — she should have pulled to the side of the road and exited the vehicle as instructed — but called the over-the-top reaction “a complete waste of resources.”
Despite its reputation as a progressive bastion in a conservative state, Austin spends nearly 40 percent of its municipal budget — some $434 million — on its police force, a more lopsided allocation of resources toward law enforcement than any other big city in Texas. But there are indications that this could change. On August 13, the City Council voted unanimously to cut APD’s funding by up to a third. Although it was a preliminary move that could be walked back, $21.5 million in cuts will take place immediately, and it counts as one of the most concrete measures that any U.S. city has taken to rein in police spending to date.
Texas Department of Public Safety State Police stand at attention on Interstate 35 during the Mike Ramos protest on May 30, 2020. A month ago, Ramos died after an officer shot him. Photo: Mario Cantu/CSM via ZUMA
Echoing knee-jerk support-the-troops rhetoric used to suppress criticism of Pentagon waste, Abbott said that the City Council’s decision “puts the brave men and women of APD at greater risk.” On August 18, he and other Republican leaders unveiled a proposed bill to freeze the property tax revenues of any Texas city that reduces the budget of its police department. Abbott also vowed to deploy even more DPS troopers to “stand in the gap,” and on September 3, tweeted that he was considering a separate legislative proposal that would allow the state government to assume control of APD, which would effectively become a subsidiary of DPS.
That agency’s nearly $6 billion budget does not appear to be in any immediate danger of reduction, even with the looming $4.6 billion deficit the state comptroller is predicting through 2021. DPS employs 4,129 full-time commissioned officers and spends about $1.4 billion on salaries alone. If the overwhelming number of state troopers summoned to arrest Lauren Mestas for stealing her own car was any indication, they have an awful lot of time on their hands, not to mention an apparently unlimited cornucopia of top-of-the-line vehicles, equipment, and gear to draw on.
The plentitude of resources contrasted strongly with the street refugee camp directly underneath the First Street Bridge, which grows a little larger every day that the pandemic grinds on, and more people lose their jobs, face eviction, or are ruined by medical costs. Not just here but beneath bridges and overpasses all over Austin, homeless encampments are proliferating, made of dome tents, shelters built of old signage, lawn furniture, laundry lines, and dumpsters installed by the city to contain the trash. All the wooded and overgrown areas of the hike-and-bike trail around Ladybird Lake are now tunneled and burrowed by human residents; at night you can hear their radios playing softly and catch whiffs of hot dogs grilling on small charcoal fires. A stone’s throw from where Mestas was arrested, not 100 yards away, is the House the Homeless Memorial, dedicated to those who have lost their lives on the streets of Austin. The plaque at the base of it says, “Homelessness is the essence of depression. It is immoral. It is socially corrupt. And it is an act of violence.”