British mom breaks 10K record while pushing a stroller

Heather Hann broke a Guinness World Record when she ran a 10K race with a time of 40 minutes and 4 seconds while pushing a stroller. Photo courtesy of Guinness World Records

Nov. 12 (UPI) -- A British woman broke a Guinness World Record when she ran a 10k race in 40 minutes, 4 seconds while pushing her 1-year-old son in a stroller.

Heather Hann, 36, of St. Albans, England, ran in the Herts Fast 10K race in Hemel Hempstead while pushing her 1-year-old son in a stroller and finished the 6.2-mile race with a record-breaking time of 40 minutes, 4 seconds.

Hann, a mother of two, said she started running with a stroller after the birth of her first child.

"I'm over the moon that my world record was approved by Guinness. It's an amazing feeling to be able to break a world record with my son and hopefully it'll encourage other parents/carers with young children to get out there. I'd love to inspire others to go on and break my world record," Hann told The Herts Advertiser.

FOR PROFIT HEALTHCARE USA
Alzheimer’s drug cited as Medicare premium jumps by $21.60
By RICARDO ALONSO-ZALDIVAR

FILE - The Biogen Inc., headquarters is shown March 11, 2020, in Cambridge, Mass. Medicare's “Part B” outpatient premium will jump by $21.60 next year, one of the largest increases ever. Medicare officials told reporters on Friday, Nov. 12, 2021, that about half the increase is attributable to contingency planning if the program has to cover Aduhelm, a new $56,000-a-year medication for Alzheimer's disease made by Biogen. (AP Photo/Steven Senne, File)


WASHINGTON (AP) — Medicare’s “Part B” outpatient premium will jump by $21.60 a month in 2022, one of the largest increases ever. Officials said Friday a new Alzheimer’s drug is responsible for about half of that.

The increase guarantees that health care will gobble up a big chunk of the recently announced Social Security cost-of-living allowance, a boost that had worked out to $92 a month for the average retired worker, intended to help cover rising prices for gas and food that are pinching seniors.

Medicare officials told reporters on Friday that about half the increase is due to contingency planning if the program ultimately has to cover Aduhelm, the new $56,000-a-year medication for Alzheimer’s disease from pharmaceutical company Biogen. The medication would add to the cost of outpatient coverage because it’s administered intravenously in a doctor’s office and paid for under Part B.

The issue is turning into a case study of how one pricey medication for a condition afflicting millions of people can swing the needle on government spending and impact household budgets. People who don’t have Alzheimer’s would not be shielded from the cost of Aduhelm, since it’s big enough to affect their premiums.

The new Part B premium will be $170.10 a month for 2022, officials said. The jump of $21.60 is the biggest increase ever in dollar terms, although not percentage-wise. As recently as August, the Medicare Trustees’ report had projected a smaller increase of $10 from the current $148.50.

“The increase in the Part B premium for 2022 is continued evidence that rising drug costs threaten the affordability and sustainability of the Medicare program,” said Medicare chief Chiquita Brooks-LaSure in a statement. Officials said the other half of the premium increase is due to the natural growth of the program and adjustments made by Congress last year as the coronavirus pandemic hit.

The late Friday afternoon announcement — in a time slot government agencies use to drop bad news — comes as Congress is considering Democratic legislation backed by President Joe Biden that would restrain what Medicare pays for drugs. However, under the latest compromise, Medicare would not be able to negotiate prices for newly launched drugs. The news on Medicare premiums could reopen that debate internally among Democrats.

“Today’s announcement ... confirms the need for Congress to finally give Medicare the ability to negotiate lower prescription drug costs,” Rep. Frank Pallone, D-N.J., said in a statement. “We simply cannot wait any longer to provide real relief to seniors.” Pallone has been a proponent of the original House version of the legislation, which took a tougher approach toward the pharmaceutical industry.

Alzheimer’s is a progressive neurological disease with no known cure, affecting about 6 million Americans, the vast majority old enough to qualify for Medicare.

Aduhelm is the first Alzheimer’s medication in nearly 20 years. It doesn’t cure the life-sapping condition, but the Food and Drug Administration determined that its ability to reduce clumps of plaque in the brain is likely to slow dementia. However, many experts say that benefit has not been clearly demonstrated.

Medicare has begun a formal assessment to determine whether it should cover the drug, and a final decision isn’t likely until at least the spring. For now, Medicare is deciding on a case-by-case basis whether to pay for Aduhelm.

Cost traditionally does not enter into Medicare’s coverage determinations. But in this case there is also plenty of debate about the effectiveness of Aduhelm. Last November, an FDA advisory panel voted nearly unanimously against recommending its approval, citing flaws in company studies. Several members of the panel resigned after the FDA approved the drug anyway over their objections.

A nonprofit think tank focused on drug pricing pegged Adulhelm’s actual value at between $3,000 and $8,400 per year — not $56,000 — based on its unproven benefits.

But Biogen has defended its pricing, saying it looked carefully at costs of advanced medications to treat cancer and other conditions. The company also says it expects a gradual uptake of the Alzheimer’s drug, and not a “hockey-stick” scenario in which costs take off. Nonetheless Medicare officials told reporters they have to plan for contingencies.

Two House committees are investigating the development of Aduhelm, including contacts between company executives and FDA regulators.

Medicare covers more than 60 million people, including those 65 and older, as well as people who are disabled or have serious kidney disease. Program spending is approaching $1 trillion a year.

FOR PROFIT HEALTHCARE

Report: Pregnancy, childbirth complications cost U.S. billions


Pregnancy and delivery complications result in billions of dollars in healthcare and lost productivity costs, according to a new report. Photo by Sanjas/Pixabay

Nov. 12 (UPI) -- Pregnancy and delivery complications for all births in 2019 will cost the United States more than $30 billion in healthcare expenses, lost productivity and social support services, according to a report released Friday.

The total costs, $32.3 billion, cover the period from conception through the first five years of children's lives, though two-thirds of that will be incurred before the children turn 1, according to data from Mathematica and the Commonwealth Fund.

At nearly $14 billion, children delivered preterm in 2019 will generate the highest costs, followed by those born with developmental disorders, at $6.5 billion, and respiratory distress, at $2.1 billion, the researchers said.

Mothers who experienced pregnancy and delivery complications as a result of 2019 childbirths will generate nearly $7 billion in lost productivity. In addition, they will incur $895 million in Caesarean section delivery costs and $350 in hospital stays shortly before or following childbirth.

Maternal mental health disorders will be the biggest medical driver of both medical and non-medical costs, at $18.1 billion, followed by hypertensive disorders of pregnancy, at $7.5 billion, and gestational diabetes, at $4.8 billion, the researchers said.

"Our findings highlight the need for more societal investments in maternal health, an area where the United States performs poorly in comparison to other developed nations, despite having the resources to prevent morbidity and mortality," report co-author So O'Neil said in a press release.

"We show that the costs of maternal morbidity affect not only birthing people and their families, but also all of us," said O'Neil, a senior researcher at Princeton, N.J.-based data analytics organization Mathematica.

Up to half of all women in the United States experience pregnancy or delivery complications, research suggests.

The report estimates account for medical costs, including those for treatment and hospitalization, as well as non-medical costs, including loss of economic productivity and increased use of social services.

The model, however, most likely underestimates the full financial burden of maternal health complications to society, such as the emotional toll on people giving birth and their family, which can affect work performance, overall health and more, the researchers said.

The report analyzed nine maternal morbidity conditions: amniotic fluid embolism, cardiac arrest, gestational diabetes mellitus, hemorrhage, hypertensive disorders, maternal mental health conditions, renal disease, sepsis and venous thromboembolism.

Of the 31 total maternal morbidity conditions identified by the report, only those nine had documented outcomes and associated costs, meaning that researchers had data for fewer than one-third of conditions contributing to maternal morbidity costs.

There is a pressing need for more comprehensive and culturally appropriate maternal care, while also ensuring that birthing people have access to healthcare before pregnancy, according to the researchers.

This would allow them to enter pregnancy healthier, begin prenatal care earlier and avoid developing conditions that can lead to severe maternal morbidity.

In addition, policies that extend postpartum Medicaid coverage for up to one year would help address key physical and mental health needs following birth, they said.

"Addressing pregnancy and childbirth complications is key to resolving our country's maternal health crisis," report co-author Dr. Laurie Zephyrin said in a press release.

"We know that lack of investment in maternal health and wellness hurts families across the country. Prioritizing health system investments in maternal health and ensuring equitable access to care will be critical," said Zephyrin, vice president for advancing health equity at the Commonwealth Fund, an organization that funds independent analysis of public healthcare issues.

ProPublica: St. Jude hoards billions while many of Its families drain their savings

LONG READ

By David Armstrong and Ryan Gabrielson, ProPublica

The SpaceX Inspiration4 mission in September included Hayley Arceneaux, a former St. Jude patient as a crew member. File Photo by Joe Marino/UPI | License Photo

Nov. 12 (UPI) -- This story was originally published by ProPublica.

A series of sharp knocks on his driver's side window startled Jason Burt awake.

It was the middle of the night on a Saturday in 2016. Burt was sleeping in his pickup truck in the parking lot of St. Jude Children's Research Hospital in downtown Memphis, Tenn., where his 5-year-old daughter was being treated for brain cancer. He'd driven more than 500 miles from his home in Central Texas to visit her.

A St. Jude security guard peered into the truck and asked Burt what he was doing. Burt explained that his daughter and her mother, his ex-girlfriend, were staying in the hospital's free patient housing. But St. Jude provides housing for only one parent. Burt, a school bus driver making $20,000 a year, told the guard he couldn't afford a hotel. The guard let the exhausted father go back to sleep.

St. Jude would do no more to find him a place to stay.

"They were aware of the situation," Burt said. "I didn't push anything. I was just grateful she was getting treated and I was doing what I needed to do."

St. Jude is the largest and most highly regarded healthcare charity in the country. Each year, the Memphis hospital's fundraisers send out hundreds of millions of letters, many with heart-wrenching photographs of children left bald from battling cancer.

Celebrities like Jennifer Aniston and Sofia Vergara sing the hospital's praises in televised advertisements. This year, St. Jude's fundraising reached outer space. The SpaceX Inspiration4 mission in September included a former St. Jude patient as a crew member.

Last year, St. Jude raised a record $2 billion. U.S. News & World Report ranked it the country's 10th-best children's cancer hospital, and St. Jude raised roughly as much as the nine hospitals ahead of it put together. It has $5.2 billion in reserves, a sum large enough to run the institution at current levels for the next four and a half years without a single additional donation.

St. Jude makes a unique promise as part of its fundraising: "Families never receive a bill from St. Jude for treatment, travel, housing or food -- because all a family should worry about is helping their child live."

But for many families, treatment at St. Jude does not relieve all the financial burdens they incur in getting care for their children, including housing, travel and food costs that fall outside the hospital's strict limits, a ProPublica investigation has found.

While families may not receive a bill from St. Jude, the hospital doesn't cover what's usually the biggest source of financial stress associated with childhood cancer: the loss of income as parents quit or take leave from jobs to be with their child during treatment. For many families, the consequence is missed payments for cars, utilities and cellphones. Others face eviction or foreclosure because they can't keep up with rent and mortgage payments.

Parents at St. Jude have exhausted savings and retirement accounts, borrowed from family and friends or asked other charities for aid. ProPublica identified more than 100 St. Jude families seeking financial help through the online fundraiser GoFundMe, with half of the campaigns started in the past two years. We counted scores of other events like concerts and yard sales organized to help St. Jude families in need.

One family relied on a mixed martial arts fighter to help raise money for expenses like car repairs and cellphone bills, items that St. Jude would not cover. Another spent $10,000, originally saved to purchase a home, on costs related to treatment at St. Jude.

Only about half of the $7.3 billion St. Jude has received in contributions in the past five fiscal years went to the hospital's research and caring for patients, according to its financial filings with the Internal Revenue Service. About 30% covered the cost of its fundraising operations, and the remaining 20%, or $1 of every $5 donated, increased its reserve fund.

Further, ProPublica found, a substantial portion of the cost for treatment is paid not by St. Jude but by families' private insurance or by Medicaid, the government insurance program for low-income families. About 90% of patients are insured, bringing in more than $100 million in reimbursements for treatment a year. If a family shows up at St. Jude without insurance, a company hired by the charity helps them find it. St. Jude does cover copays and deductibles, an unusual benefit.

St. Jude spends about $500 million a year on patient services -- a figure that includes all medical care and other assistance. Very little of what St. Jude raises from the public goes to pay for food, travel and housing for families, the investigation found. Last year, it was 2% of the money raised, or nearly $40 million.

In written responses to ProPublica, lawyers for St. Jude and its fundraising arm, the American Lebanese Syrian Associated Charities, emphasized that countless families have benefited from the charity provided since the hospital opened its doors in 1962.

"ProPublica should be celebrating St. Jude and ALSAC for their commitment to finding cures, saving children's lives and optimizing patient outcomes," one of their letters said.

It is unquestioned that St. Jude has helped thousands of children and their families over the decades. Patients have offered scores of testimonials about the hospital's generosity and care.

"This often comes as a huge relief to families who often expect to sell all their belongings just so their children can get the medical care and treatment they need to save their lives," the hospital's lawyers wrote. "St. Jude and ALSAC understand that this arrangement cannot cover all financial obligations of all families, nor can St. Jude or ALSAC shield families from all the financial and emotional effects" of a child's illness.

St. Jude said it discloses the limits of its aid to families on its website and in material provided to those whose children are admitted to the hospital. That includes the rule Burt ran into, that the hospital covers the travel and housing costs of only one caregiver and one patient. For many families, the daily food budget is capped at $50. In some cases, hotel stays en route are provided only if families travel more than 500 miles to get to St. Jude.

St. Jude said its assistance is "based on guidelines to ensure fairness and responsible use of donor funds" and on remaining compliant with a federal anti-kickback statute that makes it a criminal offense to offer something of value to induce a medical referral. St. Jude declined to explain how the law affects the amount or type of financial assistance it provides to families.

"St. Jude has never promised anyone -- neither patients nor the public in general -- that it can solve all financial problems," the letter said.

When parents need additional financial help, St. Jude's social workers often send them to smaller charities or in some cases suggest that they apply for government aid.

They refer many to the Andrew McDonough B+ Foundation, which gives more than $2.5 million a year in grants to thousands of families of pediatric cancer patients at hospitals across the country to help cover rent, utilities and other urgent expenses.

Joe McDonough, the foundation's founder and president, said St. Jude families have the same money problems as families of patients at other children's hospitals, even though he said St. Jude's marketing creates the public perception that it alleviates these burdens.

"People say to me, 'Why are you helping St. Jude families?'" McDonough said. "Well, what happens when a family lives in Augusta, Ga., and they're being treated at St. Jude? They still have to pay the rent on their apartment back in Augusta, Ga. They still have to make their car payment. And it's not my position to say whether St. Jude should be paying for all those expenses or not. I'm just explaining that it's not a totally free ride."

The help St. Jude provides to families may soon be increasing.

After ProPublica provided St. Jude with the findings of its reporting, the hospital informed families of a dramatic expansion in the assistance it will give to parents and other relatives during their kids' treatment in Memphis.

Among the most significant changes are increasing travel benefits to two parents instead of one and covering regular trips to Memphis for siblings and other loved ones. St. Jude's letter to parents said the changes take effect Monday.

That would've made a big difference for Burt.

Burt's daughter, whom ProPublica is not identifying at her mother's request, was originally diagnosed with cancer in early 2015, when doctors discovered a tumor pressing against her brain stem. She had successful emergency surgery to remove the mass at Dell Children's Medical Center in Austin, Texas. Medicaid and Dell Children's covered the bill, but the family was still faced with the cost of her ongoing treatment.

"At that point I'm thinking: 'What am I going to do? I guess I'm selling my house, whatever it takes,'" Burt recalled. "Honestly, that was probably a big deciding factor for St. Jude."

St. Jude accepted Burt's daughter into a clinical trial, and the family moved to the hospital's patient housing in Memphis for several months. Both parents stopped working for a time, and people in their hometown raised cash to pay their bills

Her cancer relapsed the following year with several new, inoperable brain tumors. Burt and his daughter's mom broke up during that round of treatment, and financial problems piled up.

Burt said his credit score dropped so low that utility companies refused to set up service unless he first paid a deposit. One of the family's cars was repossessed, he said. Burt's 2005 Chevrolet Colorado pickup has 300,000 miles on it, many of them logged on trips from Texas to Memphis. When Burt's daughter was at St. Jude for treatment or exams, he'd work all week, then visit on many weekends where he would spend Saturday night sleeping in the hospital parking lot.

He asked hospital officials if he could sleep in St. Jude's housing, but they turned him down, he said.

Burt said he was happy with the care St. Jude provided. His daughter's health is stable, he said, and brain scans taken during her September exam confirmed her two remaining tumors haven't grown. But he's still trying to recover financially.

"It's five years now," Burt said, "and I'm not completely caught up yet."

Fundraising giant

St. Jude began with a fledgling entertainer praying for a career break.

When Danny Thomas, a comic and actor best known for the TV sitcom Make Room for Daddy, was struggling to earn a living in the late 1930s, the devout Roman Catholic went to church and asked for help from the patron saint of desperate cases, St. Jude Thaddeus. If he made it big, Thomas promised to build "a shrine where the poor and the helpless and the hopeless may come for comfort and aid," according to a history published by ALSAC.

Within five years, Thomas became a star and worked to fulfill his promise by building a children's hospital named after St. Jude and a fundraising organization to support it. Thomas, whose parents were Lebanese immigrants, recruited others who shared his Middle Eastern roots to help.

He used his fame to raise the hospital's profile, appearing in ads for St. Jude and hosting fundraising events starring the likes of Elvis Presley and Sammy Davis Jr. Thomas' daughter Marlo, herself a TV star, succeeded him in championing St. Jude.

Today, St. Jude is a specialty treatment and research center with about 5,700 employees and 73 beds. Other top children's hospitals have more staff and beds, and they also treat more conditions.

Though St. Jude raises money across the world, most of its patients come from Tennessee and surrounding states. Patients from elsewhere are usually enrolled in clinical trials.

ALSAC, which handles St. Jude's fundraising and investments, has 2,188 employees in Memphis and in 36 regional offices across the country. More than 400 of the fundraising arm's employees are paid over $100,000, according to IRS filings. The charity takes in so much money each year that it regularly steers hundreds of millions of dollars in donations to reserve accounts, the filings show.

Overall, St. Jude's reserve has grown by 58% over the past five fiscal years, during which it has added $1.9 billion to its investment accounts and shifted its portfolio toward financial products designed to generate bigger returns than stocks, bonds and mutual funds traditionally deliver. The charity stowed more than a third of the new surplus, $688 million, in riskier private equity investments.

IRS rules do not limit the size of a nonprofit's reserves, and experts on charitable finance differ on best practices.

St. Jude meets Better Business Bureau guidelines, which call for charities to maintain reserves of less than three times total expenses, but other experts expressed alarm that the hospital had accumulated such a large sum of money.

The size of the St. Jude reserve is "staggering," said Laura Otten, the director of LaSalle University's master program in nonprofit leadership. She said a typical reserve for a nonprofit the size of St. Jude is one to two years of expenses. Donors generally want to know their dollars are being put to work, she said.

The hospital said it needs a large reserve because its unique operating model relies on donations to fund annual operating costs. "[W]e are highly donor-dependent and subject to the economic driven vagaries of charitable giving," the hospital said in a written response to ProPublica questions.

But the hospital's reserve is more than large enough to buffer against recessions and potential drops in donations, said Ge Bai, a professor of accounting and health policy at Johns Hopkins University. "They should be spending the money as aggressively as they raise it, but they seem to be hoarding," Bai said.

The hospital said it is also raising billions to fund the construction of new housing and research space, although its plans do not currently include spending any of the reserve on new facilities.

St. Jude's reserves have ballooned at a time when researchers, oncologists, advocates and families complain about a dearth of funding for pediatric cancer studies nationally.

Dozens of other children's hospitals across the country have research divisions devoted to pediatric cancer and enroll their patients in clinical trials for new drugs and procedures. They pay for research staff and studies in part with donations from their local communities, often competing directly against St. Jude. ALSAC has regional offices in several U.S. cities with elite pediatric cancer centers of their own, including Atlanta, Chicago, Denver and Seattle.

Coury Shadyac, an ALSAC vice president and daughter of the organization's CEO, Richard Shadyac Jr., oversees a team of 45 fundraisers along the West Coast "raising $300 million annually" for St. Jude, according to her LinkedIn profile. That's $100 million more in donations than either Children's Hospital Los Angeles or Seattle Children's Hospital, two of the nation's leading pediatric cancer institutions, received in fiscal year 2019, IRS disclosures show. But it's only a small part of St. Jude's fundraising haul.

ALSAC's ubiquitous fundraising has led to concerns that it undercuts other hospitals' campaigns. Some doctors interviewed by ProPublica said they have encouraged donors to give their money to hospitals closer to home.

David Clark, a pediatrician and former longtime chairman of pediatrics at Albany Medical Center in New York, said St. Jude raises tens of thousands of dollars in his region that does little to benefit the children with cancer in his area since almost all are treated locally. ALSAC has a fundraising office located a few miles from Albany Medical.

"They think of every way they can to make money and the least amount of ways to spend it," Clark said. "They deceive people into supporting something that is totally dishonest."

Nearly all St. Jude solicitations feature the hospital's patients -- the children usually smiling and bald from treatment -- along with the familiar promise that it never sends families a bill.

It's a message that ALSAC has tested and researched to maximize donations. Donors appreciate the promise to never bill families, said Mary Kate Tolan, an ALSAC executive, in a podcast last year. She added that no parent should have to take out a second mortgage or lose their job because their child is being treated at St. Jude

Alternative messaging to the no-bills promise did not "perform as well," said Tolan, who develops emerging technologies for ALSAC. Tolan did not return requests for comment.

'Borrowing and begging'

Catherine Rainey thought she would be free of financial worry when her 2-year-old daughter Harlee was admitted to St. Jude last year.

"The first thing my dad said was: 'Catherine, you have nothing to worry about. They raise billions of dollars. Anytime you have a problem, you tell them and they will take care of it,'" she said.

But like many families, the Raineys discovered that St. Jude's charity came with limits on payments for expenses such as travel that could be bewildering.

Harlee ended up at St. Jude after first going to nearby Niswonger Children's Hospital in Johnson City, Tenn., in October 2020. The doctors there discovered a cancerous mass attached to her right kidney. The hospital is a St. Jude affiliate, and the doctors recommended the toddler be treated in Memphis.

Rainey, a single mother of two young girls, had to leave her job as a nurse for months to be with Harlee at St. Jude. The loss of income quickly created problems. "My family, we don't come from money," she said. "We are not doctors and billionaires. We make it. That is it."

St. Jude did provide food and housing on campus. But the hospital said it couldn't help with the items that were causing Rainey to worry, including car payments, insurance and cellphone bills.

Rainey's boss set up a GoFundMe account to help make up some of her lost income. A small local charity, Kari's Heart Foundation, also helped out by paying about $3,000 worth of phone bills and car payments, staving off repossession.

"It was just a bunch of borrowing and begging," Rainey said of her experience while her daughter was treated in Memphis. "They acted like it was coming out of their own pocket."

Harlee has checkups at St. Jude every three months that last about four days. The costs of travel to and from St. Jude put an additional strain on Rainey and Harlee. St. Jude is an eight-hour ride, without stops, from Rainey's home in Appalachia, Va., a town of 1,432 people near the Kentucky border.

Rainey said her daughter generally can make it about two-thirds of the way, with frequent stops, before she has had enough. "When she is done, she is really done," Rainey said. "She will scream, cry and kick."

In July, in advance of an August trip to Memphis, Rainey called the patient services department at St. Jude to see whether they could help pay for a hotel to break up the travel day -- an expense Rainey said she could not afford.

To qualify for a hotel reimbursement, Rainey said, St. Jude told her she had to live more than 500 miles from Memphis. The ride from her home to the hospital is 530 miles (a measurement ProPublica confirmed with mapping tools). However, Rainey said, St. Jude told her it measured the trip from city limit to city limit and came up with a distance of 491 miles. Even using that metric, the distance is still more than 500 miles, ProPublica found.

When she challenged the hospital's stance, Rainey said she was berated by a patient services representative.

"I was feeling pissed off, and I was crying," Rainey said of the interaction. "You give up your whole life for your child, and they tell you don't worry about anything, we will cover this and then they tell you to just push through the drive."

Rainey did what she could to make the trip go smoothly: She configured a small table to extend across her daughter's car seat, so Harlee could play with the coloring books, markers and Play-Doh bought for the ride. She packed snacks and a cooler full of drinks. Since Harlee was still potty training, she brought extra towels and clothes for accidents. The final step was handing Harlee her Baby Yoda doll once she settled into her car seat. Rainey had sewed a port in the doll's chest to mirror the one Harlee has in hers.

About three hours from Memphis, Harlee was crying inconsolably. Rainey pulled off the interstate and stopped at the first hotel she could find. She later learned it had been described in online reviews as "awful," a "nightmare," "disgusting" and "horrible."

"I didn't know the area," she said. "The hotel was garbage. It just made it worse."

The drive home also required a hotel stop, but this time Rainey was able to find one that was cleaner. A $100 donation from a local charity helped to offset the cost.

Among the changes St. Jude is making is to reimburse families like Rainey's, who live more than 400 miles from the hospital, is for an overnight stay at a hotel when making the trip to Memphis.

Rainey said she was called by a St. Jude representative after ProPublica asked about her situation and was told the hospital would pay for her past hotel stays when traveling back and forth to St. Jude. The representative, Rainey said, also told her the hospital discovered the way it had been measuring mileage was inaccurate.

"I am not the only one," Rainey said. "There are others. They should reimburse all the families."

The anxiety of unpaid bills piling up, combined with caring for a child undergoing chemotherapy or radiation, takes a severe toll on parents and guardians, said Christopher Hope, a UPS driver who started a Memphis-based foundation after meeting St. Jude parents who were in financial crisis.

Hope's small charity spent $12,000 last year to help families. Parents in St. Jude social media groups often refer families in need to it. The charity has helped families cover mortgage and car payments.

"I never knew anything about this until hearing about it from families," Hope said. "All we hear is about kids and treatment, not the other side of it."

'It's not free'

In addition to charities like Hope's, St. Jude families have repeatedly turned to fundraising sites and networks of their relatives, friends and neighbors to help cover basic expenses while unable to work during their children's treatment. Parents' requests on fundraising sites are sometimes desperate pleas.

In January 2017, one father in North Carolina said he'd had to abandon a business venture to take time for his son to receive care at St. Jude. His income had plummeted. He asked friends to give as little as $10 to "at least make it possible to survive."

This year, a mother in Memphis whose 1-year-old son receives care at St. Jude for sickle cell disorder ran out of medical leave and couldn't work her shifts at a clothing distribution center. After the child had a flare-up in July requiring several days of treatment at the hospital, she said she returned home to find her power shut off. Sitting in a dark apartment, unable to pay her utility bills, she set up a GoFundMe campaign. She received less than $20 through the site; her relatives eventually pooled $350 to get her electricity restored.

Even parents with stable jobs and private health insurance often take on debt and need outside help.

When Taylr and Treg Murphy's 17-year-old son Peyton was diagnosed with cancer and needed months-long treatment at St. Jude in 2017, the entire family -- mom, dad, sister and brother -- went with him, traveling from their home in Lafayette, La., to Memphis. Treg took a leave from his job at an oil mining company and Taylr, who works at her mother's bakery, did the same.

"We knew that it was going to be a collective team effort," Treg said. "Without even a discussion, we figured that if Peyton's got to go for the surgery, we're all going."

Peyton had an enormous tumor that had grown out of his right femur and was crowding his knee. Rounds of chemotherapy appeared to have killed osteosarcoma cells elsewhere in his body. But he needed to undergo a procedure called limb-sparing surgery that would require weeks of recovery time at the hospital.

The hospital agreed to allow all five family members to stay for free at St. Jude if they bunked together in a single room. It assigned them a spot in Tri Delta Place, its hotel-like short-term patient residence on the campus. Tri Delta is set up for visits of up to seven days, according to the hospital's guide for volunteers, but the Murphys were there for almost 50.

Taylr said the unit at Tri Delta had no oven or stove and St. Jude provided no grocery money, instead allotting them a $50-per-day credit at the hospital cafeteria, Kay Kafe -- not enough to feed the family of five. As the weeks wore on, the Murphys split grilled cheese sandwiches and paid for food out of pocket.

After ProPublica asked about the hospital's food allowances, St. Jude said it would increase them as part of the changes scheduled to go into effect this month. The hospital switched from a $50-a-day cap per family to providing $25 a day to each family member. For a family of four, that would double the food benefit. A weekly stipend given to families in long-term housing was increased to $150 from $125.

For the Murphys, it was the loss of their work income, more than out-of-pocket expenses, that put them into a financial hole as Peyton's treatment went on. Treg's employer couldn't pay him during his long absences.

Fearful of being evicted or having their car repossessed, Taylr said she asked a St. Jude social worker for assistance. The social worker helped her apply for grants from other charities. Taylr said the B+ Foundation paid their rent one month, which ensured they'd have a home to return to.

In the years since his initial treatment, Peyton has gone back to St. Jude repeatedly for exams and surgeries to remove malignant growths in his lungs. Taylr and Treg have missed more work to bring Peyton to Memphis, costing them thousands of dollars more in income.

By the start of this year, Taylr and Treg said they were about $20,000 in debt and panicking. Dustin Poirier, a former UFC champion from their hometown, heard from a friend about Peyton and the family's financial trouble. He donated $10,000 to them from his personal charity and in May hosted a local fundraiser that collected enough to pay off their credit cards.

St. Jude families sometimes commiserate about money problems with each other, Taylr said, but few are aware of the extent of the hospital's unspent resources. The Murphys said they didn't know St. Jude has more than $5 billion in reserve or that it continues to raise hundreds of millions of dollars in surplus donations each year.

"That's just insane," Taylr said. "That just blows my mind. When we first started getting treated, people would be like, 'Oh, St. Jude covers everything, that's awesome.' That's not how it works. People don't understand that. I truly didn't understand before I got into St. Jude."

Taylr and Treg said the doctors at St. Jude are "amazing" and they're grateful for their son's care. But they bristled at the assumption that it was covered by the hospital's charity. The family's insurance paid a substantial part of the bills.

"It's not free," Taylr said. "My husband works very hard for the insurance we have -- and they are billed." The Murphys pay $12,000 in health insurance premiums each year.

Their struggle continues. Peyton's cancer has relapsed, and he's making regular trips with his mom or dad back to St. Jude for chemotherapy. The family is again applying for help from other charities.

Wiped out savings

The costs associated with care at St. Jude caused at least one family to stop going to Memphis altogether.

Last winter, Kelly Edwards was excitedly searching through Tulsa real estate listings after years of diligently saving $10,000 for a down payment on a house. She craved a permanent home for herself and the two young brothers she had taken in five years earlier at the behest of a family friend. She hoped to adopt the boys, now 13 and 9, who call her mom.

In February, the older boy, DJ, was lethargic and uninterested in his schoolwork. After several doctor visits, he was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia at a Tulsa hospital. The cancer, referred to as ALL, is the most common type among children, with survival rates that exceed 90%. A day after his diagnosis, DJ and Edwards were driving six hours to Memphis for treatment at St. Jude, which is affiliated with the Oklahoma hospital.

The pair stayed for free at an independently operated Ronald McDonald House near St. Jude, and a weekly stipend from the hospital helped to pay for meals -- aid that Edwards said was a blessing. DJ had health insurance through the Oklahoma Medicaid program.

But as with the Murphys, lost income soon put Edwards' family into financial jeopardy. She works as a supervisor for a company that delivers packages for Amazon. After she used up two weeks of paid time off, she stopped getting paychecks. The bills, however, kept coming: rent, car payments, utilities. To that was added the $250 a week she paid a friend to stay with DJ's younger brother and her two dogs in Tulsa.

Within four months, her house savings were wiped out. Edwards said she told her St. Jude social worker about her financial woes but got no additional help.

One of Edwards' adult daughters started a GoFundMe campaign to help, bringing in just over $3,000. Edwards said she appreciated the aid but believes donations were kept low by the widespread perception that St. Jude families don't have financial problems.

"Everyone hears that everything is taken care of by St. Jude," she said. "That is not true, but everyone has that mentality." She said someone she knew asked her "what is that money going for if St. Jude's is paying for everything?"

DJ was scheduled to go back to St. Jude for three weeks of treatment in August, but Edwards decided she simply couldn't afford it. "I don't have the money to go back and forth," she said. She worked with DJ's local doctors and found that the hospital near her home in Tulsa could provide the same treatment he was scheduled to get in Tennessee.

The local treatment allowed her to continue working some shifts and to be at home with both of her boys. DJ is also happier when he is home, Edwards said.

Edwards and the boys are now living in a small house her brother owns just outside Tulsa. Late on a recent weekday afternoon, DJ slowly shuffled into the living room, exhausted from a day of chemotherapy treatment.

He is in the midst of a 20-week regimen where he receives the cancer-killing drugs every other day, just one phase of a nearly three-year treatment plan. He wore an orange knit hat, T-shirt and shorts. He rubbed his eyes before asking a visitor, "How is your day going?" He smiled at the positive response. When he heard the family was eating steak for dinner, he eagerly jumped up to start helping in the kitchen.

After they moved in, Edwards hung family portraits on the walls to make it feel homier. She doesn't expect they will be moving again any time soon.

The dream of buying a home of their own is gone.

Lions, tigers and an unbearable year at Jack Hanna’s zoo

By JULIE CARR SMYTH

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FILE—In this Sept. 5, 2013, file photo, Jack Hanna stands at the front entrance of the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium in Powell, Ohio. It's been a challenging year that began on Jan. 1, 2021, the first day of famed zookeeper Hanna's retirement — after 42 years as the beloved celebrity director-turned-ambassador of the nation’s second-largest zoo. But the Association of Zoos and Aquariums' president predicts incoming CEO Tom Schmid can bring the zoo “roaring back.” (Tom Dodge/The Columbus Dispatch via AP, File)


COLUMBUS, Ohio (AP) — The Columbus Zoo and Aquarium had a bear of a year.

It began Jan. 1, the first day of famous zookeeper Jack Hanna’s retirement after 42 years as the beloved celebrity director-turned-ambassador of the nation’s second-largest zoo.

As if the khaki-wearing “Jungle Jack” were the life’s breath of the institution that his upbeat animal-loving persona and masses of TV appearances made famous, the zoo seemed to deflate from there.

In March, news of a financial scandal broke. Top executives resigned. Investigations were launched. Mea culpas were issued.

The next week, the zoo’s beloved 29-year-old bonobo Unga died, and a 4-year-old cheetah injured a zookeeper.

Then in April, just as a streaming international TV channel named for him was launching, a damning animal rights documentary alleging Hanna had ties to the big cat trade premiered in California. A day later, in timing they said was unrelated, Hanna’s family announced he had dementia and would retire from public life

In October, citing the financial and animal rights revelations, a commission of the respected Association of Zoos and Aquariums stripped the Columbus Zoo of its main accreditation. Zoo officials filed an intent to appeal last week.

“It’s been a tough year for the Columbus Zoo, yes,” said association president Dan Ashe, while adding that the zoo’s roughly 2 million visitors a year can still be assured the facility’s 10,000 animals are well cared for.

Ashe said bringing in Tom Schmid, who currently heads the Texas State Aquarium, as the zoo’s new leader bodes well: “He’s going to bring the Columbus Zoo roaring back.”

Schmid, 56, begins his new job Dec. 6 as president and CEO of the zoo and its related businesses, including The Wilds safari park and conservation center and Zoombezi Bay water park.

Keith Shumate, chair of the zoo’s board, called Schmid “extremely smart, ethical and passionate about zoos and wildlife conservation.”

“We can’t change what happened in the past, but we’ve done a lot to admit those wrongs, to apologize and to address our shortcomings,” said zoo spokesperson Nicolle Gomez Racey. “The people who took liberties in their power are gone, and the people who are cleaning up the mess in the room, under new leadership, we’re moving forward. That’s the only thing you can do.”

Interim CEO Jerry Borin has overseen zoo business since then-CEO Tom Stalf and his chief financial officer, Greg Bell, resigned in March after a Columbus Dispatch investigation found they allowed relatives to live in houses owned or controlled by the zoo and sought tickets for family members to attend entertainment events.

The findings were confirmed in subsequent reviews, including a forensic analysis that found financial abuses by Stalf, Bell and two other former executives cost the zoo more than $630,000. Investigations by Ohio’s state auditor and attorney general are still underway, their spokespeople said.

The spending abuse was a particularly painful blow after the pandemic-related financial hardship of 2020.

Typically, Columbus Zoo is open 363 days a year. More than half its earned revenue comes from admissions and other sales, such as food and gift items. Yet, that year, it was closed for weeks, ultimately sustaining $20 million in operational losses. Twenty-nine full- and part-time employees were furloughed, and 33 non-animal care positions across the zoo and The Wilds were eliminated.

Yet even more wrenching were the accusations leveled in the documentary “The Conservation Game,” which premiered at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival on April 6.

The film tied the zoo and Hanna to the big cat trade, showing that some tiger, lion and snow leopard cubs that had been Hanna’s fuzzy and adorable companions on TV neither came from nor returned to the zoo. In many cases, they were provided by backyard breeders and unaccredited roadside zoos and disappeared into private hands after those appearances.

As publicity around the film grew, Hanna’s relatives said they hadn’t seen it and could not comment on the claims. “What we can say emphatically is that he worked his entire career to better the animal world,” the family said in a statement.

Ashe said the film’s revelations, coupled with his association’s own growing file on the zoo’s Animal Programs department, weighed heavily in the decision to pull Columbus’ accreditation.

“They were, and have been for some time, dealing with non-AZA members, and pretty clearly not disclosing those transfers,” Ashe said. “Those are very serious issues within our accreditation process.”

Filmmaker Michael Webber said the zoo and its accreditors took his documentary’s allegations seriously.

Over the summer, the zoo acknowledged the bulk of the film’s revelations and apologized. It revised policies and reporting structures for acquisition and disposition of ambassador animals in the Animal Programs department. A longtime vice president of animal programs retired.

“We made some mistakes. There’s no doubt about it,” Shumate told the Dispatch.

Borin also reversed the zoo’s previous opposition — which the film alleged had been spearheaded by Hanna — to The Big Cat Public Safety Act. He announced zoo support in April for the federal legislation prohibiting private ownership of big cats as pets and banning cub-petting venues. Racey said the reversal followed important revisions to the bill, which remains pending in Washington.

Webber said he’s giving the zoo a second chance because of its robust response to the film, and he hopes the public will, too.

“I feel very good about the outlook both for the Columbus Zoo and for the animals that we’ve seen exploited for decades,” he said. “Albeit after a very painful year, things are going to be better.”

Ashe said the year’s disclosures also have caused soul-searching within the Association of Zoos and Aquariums, where the Columbus Zoo has long been a flagship institution and Hanna a superstar.

“Our members live on their reputation for excellent care of animals, so whenever we see something like Columbus, which, quite frankly, we should have caught that earlier, it’s an opportunity for reflection and improvement,” he said. “That’s the silver lining in all of this. I think Columbus will be better as a zoological facility, and we’ll be better as an accrediting body, as well.”

Parkland activists heal over years while pushing gun reform

By KELLI KENNEDY

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Parkland survivor and activist David Hogg speaks during a rally outside of the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington, Wednesday, Nov. 3, 2021. The Supreme Court is set to hear arguments in a gun rights case that centers on New York's restrictive gun permit law and whether limits the state has placed on carrying a gun in public violate the Second Amendment. (AP Photo/Jose Luis Magana)

FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. (AP) — When the shooter in the 2018 Parkland school massacre finally pleaded guilty last month, it briefly revived attention and donations for the anti-gun violence March For Our Lives student movement birthed by the tragedy.

It also dredged up personal trauma for many of young activists, though most are now hundreds of miles away at college.

Jaclyn Corin, 21, one of the group’s original organizers and now a Harvard junior, stayed off social media the week of the shooter’s court proceedings to avoid painful memories. But well-intentioned loved ones texted constantly to provide support, unwittingly making it impossible for her to ignore.

“I try my best not to think about him and the violence that he inflicted, but it’s incredibly hard to do that when someone who ruined your life and the lives of literally everyone in your community is trending on social media.”

In the initial months after the shooting that killed 17 at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, the teenagers amassed one of the largest youth protests in history in Washington and rallied more than a million activists in sister marches from California to Japan. They made the cover of Time magazine and raised millions to fund March For Our Lives. They testified before Congress, met with the president, won the International Children’s Peace Prize and launched a 60-plus city bus tour to register tens of thousands of young voters.

March For Our Lives has evolved into a 300-chapter organization that has had a hand in helping pass many of the 130 gun violence prevention bills approved across the country since 2018 and regularly files amicus briefs in gun-related lawsuits.

Yet some of the original founders, including Emma Gonzalez, have left or taken a step back — or moved on to other issues. One of them is running for Congress in Florida.

Corin was so burned out from activism when she started college that she said she needed a year for herself.

“A lot of our trauma from the shooting is inherently linked to the organization,” she said.

Nearly four years after the shootings, the twenty-somethings have managed to keep the organization going and youth-led. Still, they’ve struggled to achieve sustainable financing. The organization has raised over $31 million to date, but its operating costs were slightly higher than funds in 2020.

David Hogg, one of the most recognizable faces from the group and still one of its most active members, said the organization is much more stable now than in the early days

“When you get a bunch of traumatized teenagers together and say, ‘It’s up to you to fix this,’ ... the weight that puts on a 17-year-old mind or a 14-year-old mind like my sister’s after she lost four friends that day is enormous.”

Hogg, also a student at Harvard, delayed college for a year to help grow the organization. He was in Washington last week for a Supreme Court case about the right to carry a firearm in public for self-defense where the organization filed an amicus brief supporting a restrictive New York state law.



“There are days when I want to stop. There are days when I am exhausted. But there are days when I realize I am not alone in this work,” Hogg said in a recent interview.

Hogg, who has drawn persistent scorn from conservatives including Georgia’s Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene and Fox News personality Laura Ingraham, said March For Our Lives is focused on the long game. It hopes to spur youth nationally to run for office, become judges and draft policies.

Volunteers in the organization made over 1 million texts and phone calls leading up to the 2020 election.

Maxwell Frost, one of the group’s founders and its former organizing director, is running for an open congressional seat from Orlando. Another founding member, Charlie Mirsky, took a year off to work full time as the organization’s policy director before before enrolling at Lafayette College. Last summer, he helped the organization form a judicial advocacy branch to write amicus briefs.

While gun control remains the group’s chief mission, the students said they consider issues like racism, poverty and voter disenfranchisement to be intertwined and have focused extra efforts on communities of color affected by gun violence.

Many of the students rallied for Black Lives Matters last summer in the wake of the George Floyd protests, including Aalayah Eastmond.

Eastmond, now a junior at Trinity Washington University, was in her Holocaust history class when the gunman killed several students inside. The now 20-year-old took part in March For Our Lives’ bus tour, though she is not a formal member of the group.

“I wanted to make sure we were addressing inner city gun violence that disproportionately impacts Black and brown youth,” Eastmond said. “I felt like that was a huge part of the conversation that is overlooked.”

And now, as a jury will decide in January whether the Parkland school shooter will spend life in prison or receive the death penalty, the student activists find themselves grappling yet again with the human toll of gun violence. The organization does not have a formal position, but the students said they support whatever the victims’ families want.

“I think it’s a really difficult scenario,” Corin said. “I struggle with the morality of the death penalty often, but I do know that it could give victims’ families peace, specifically in this case where we know the person is guilty.”

 

FILE - The crowd fills Pennsylvania Avenue during the "March for Our Lives" rally in support of gun control, Saturday, March 24, 2018, in Washington. In the wake of the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, teenaged survivors organized one of the largest youth protests in history in D.C., rallying over a million activists in sister marches from California to Japan.

Sinema’s shift: ‘Prada socialist’ to corporate donor magnet

By BRIAN SLODYSKO


 Sen. Kyrsten Sinema, D-Ariz., speaks during a Senate Finance Committee hearing on Oct. 19, 2021 on Capitol Hill in Washington. Twenty years ago, a Green Party activist running for city council in Phoenix named Kyrsten Sinema likened the practice of raising campaign cash to “bribery.” Now a first-term Arizona senator, she no longer has such qualms, raising nearly $500,000 in donations from financial and pharmaceutical sector this year. (Mandel Ngan/Pool via AP, File)


WASHINGTON (AP) — Twenty years ago, a Green Party activist running for the Phoenix City Council named Kyrsten Sinema likened raising campaign cash to “bribery.”

Now a first-term senator from Arizona, she no longer has such qualms.

Once a self-styled “Prada socialist” labeled as “too extreme” by Arizona’s Democratic Party, Sinema has found new power as a centrist in a 50-50 Senate where there are no votes to spare, forcing President Joe Biden to downsize his agenda and other Democratic ambitions.

Her outsize authority highlights one senator’s ability to exploit her party’s narrow hold on the chamber and bend the will of the majority. That prowess is also a reason that corporate interests eager to influence Democrats’ now-$1.85 trillion package of social and climate initiatives have rushed to provide her financial support.

Throughout months of exhaustive negotiations, Sinema has offered only limited explanation for opposing policies Democrats have campaigned on for years, angering many of her colleagues.

But her actions also have won her new allies, making Sinema a magnet for campaign donations from powerful interests with millions at stake in how the legislation turns out.

Sinema notably opposed two parts of Biden’s initial proposal that have broad public support: an increase in the tax rates for corporations and wealthy individuals, and an expansive plan that would have substantially reduced the cost of prescription drugs for Medicare recipients.

The concessions she helped win align with the interests of many of her donors who have made Sinema the Senate’s No. 3 recipient of money — nearly $500,000 — this year from the pharmaceutical and financial services sectors, according to OpenSecrets, a nonpartisan group that tracks money in politics.

Sinema’s office declined to make her available for an interview. In a statement, her office said she has consistently supported “pro-growth economic policies” and “protecting medical innovation.” They disputed the relevance of comments Sinema made early in her political career in a race she lost.

“Senator Sinema makes decisions based on one consideration: what’s best for Arizona,” spokesman John LaBombard said.

Yet her embrace of influential donors she once rejected perplexes many in her party.

“It creates the perception of a conflict of interest and perception of industry groups having influence,” said Rep. Ro Khanna, D-Calif., who was co-chair of Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders’ 2020 presidential campaign. “How does she explain the role of all of these contributions?”

A former social worker who served on Ralph Nader’s 2000 Green Party presidential campaign, Sinema didn’t seek office as a Democrat until after two unsuccessful Arizona bids as a progressive or independent.

After winning a seats in the Arizona House in 2004, her political persona began to shift. Gradually retooling herself as a moderate, Sinema rose through the Legislature’s Democratic minority while positioning herself for higher office as the state transitioned from a Republican stronghold to an electoral battleground.

Since her 2012 election to the U.S. House, the candidate who once railed against capitalism’s “Almighty Dollar” has welcomed the contributions of industry groups and corporate political action committees. She’s raised at least $3 million from CEOs, businesses executives, investors, lobbyists and finance sector workers, campaign finance records show.

Sinema’s swelling campaign account comes as many in her party have refused such contributions, denouncing them as evidence of deep-seated corruption in Washington.

While Sinema is hardly alone in raising money from special interests during a major legislative battle, what is notable is the scope of Sinema’s fundraising windfall between April and September. Her objections to Biden’s legislation then gave her massive sway over the future of his bill. The roughly $3 million she collected during that period is the best cash haul of her career outside the 2018 election, when she was first on the ballot for U.S. Senate.

But there were signs of her gravitating to business interests earlier.

Last year, she helped initiate a bipartisan caucus to raise “awareness of the benefits of personalized medicine,” a pricey form of precision treatments for diseases that are hard to cure. Her current opposition to tax increases on corporate and high-earners comes after she voted in 2017 against President Donald Trump’s tax cut legislation, which lowered the corporate rate to its current 21 percent while also giving a rebate to high earners.

Among the donors:

—Executives and a PAC for the drugmaker Amgen have given at least $21,500 in 2021, making Sinema second only to House Republican leader Kevin McCarthy of California in receiving contributions from the company this year. Almost all of the Amgen donations were clustered in late June, when Democrats were pushing legislation that would have curtailed pharmaceutical company earnings by allowing Medicare to negotiate lower drug prices. Sinema’s opposition was instrumental in leading lawmakers to pursue a scaled-back version that is now advancing in the House. The new plan would allow Medicare to negotiate the price of about 100 drug within a few years, while limiting monthly insulin copayments to $35 for many.

Company CEO Robert Bradway gave Sinema $5,000; two company lobbyists gave an additional $3,000.

—Sinema has taken in at least $27,000 this year from major drugmakers including Takeda, GlaxoSmithKline, Genentech and Eli Lilly. Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America, the preeminent trade organization representing drugmakers, has been a major source of funding for a group that is running ads praising Sinema as “independent and effective for Arizona,” records show.

—Twelve executives for the investment bank Goldman Sachs have donated $37,000 to Sinema since May. That includes Goldman President John Waldron, who gave a maximum $5,800 donation in August. Sinema’s office said that while she doesn’t support raising corporate taxes, she does support establishing a corporate minimum tax so that businesses can’t altogether avoid paying their fair share, which is now included in Biden’s plan.

—Executives, managers and a corporate PAC for Ryan LLC, a global tax consulting firm, poured over $72,000 into Sinema’s campaign account in late August and September. That made Ryan, whose employees and PAC had not previously given to Sinema, one of her top corporate donors. The Texas-based company advertises itself as “liberating our clients from the burden of being overtaxed.” In August, USA Today reported that the company officials are ensnared in an FBI inquiry over whether they pressured the administration of Gov. Doug Ducey, R-Ariz., to issue millions of dollars in tax refunds to a Ryan client.

Checks have also come in from Jimmy Haslam III, a longtime Republican donor and owner of the Cleveland Browns, and his wife, Susan, who gave $8,700 to Sinema in June and September; Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss, twins who run a private equity firm and are perhaps best known for successfully suing Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg, who each gave $5,800 apiece in July; and Stanley Hubbard, a billionaire Minnesota TV and radio station mogul who has given millions of dollars to GOP causes, who donated $2,900 in September.

Sinema has drawn the ire of her colleagues in Congress, who say she blocked proposals that almost all Democratic lawmakers support.

“It would be a tragedy for us to not fix the unjust corporate tax system so that corporations and individuals pay their fair share,” said Rep. Pramila Jayapal of Washington state, the chair of the Congressional Progressive Caucus, who played an major role in negotiating the bill.

Sanders focused on Sinema’s support for the priorities of the pharmaceutical industry.

“It is beyond comprehension that there’s any member of the United States Congress who is not prepared to vote to make sure that we lower prescription drug costs,” he said last month. He added that he hoped Sinema “does what the people in Arizona want.”

Some longtime Democratic Party financiers have also grown frustrated with her.

“With all the tension in the party, people have long memories,” said Michael Smith, a donor from Los Angeles, whose partner, James Costos, served as President Barack Obama’s ambassador to Spain.

Homer Plessy, key to ‘separate but equal,’ on road to pardon

By JANET McCONNAUGHEY

This June 3, 2018 photo shows a marker on the burial site for Homer Plessy at St. Louis No. 1 Cemetery in New Orleans. Homer Plessy, the namesake of the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1896 “separate but equal” ruling, is being considered for a posthumous pardon. The Creole man of color died with a conviction still on his record for refusing to leave a whites-only train car in New Orleans in 1892.

 (AP Photo/Beth J. Harpaz, File)

NEW ORLEANS (AP) — A Louisiana board on Friday voted to pardon Homer Plessy, whose decision to sit in a “whites-only” railroad car to protest discrimination led to the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1896 “separate but equal” ruling affirming state segregation laws.

The state Board of Pardons’ unanimous decision to clear the Creole man’s record of a conviction now goes to Gov. John Bel Edwards, who has final say over the pardon.

“Gov. Edwards is traveling today but looks forward to receiving and reviewing the recommendation of the Board upon his return” Tuesday evening, spokeswoman Christina Stephens said.

The Plessy v. Ferguson decision cemented racial segregation for another half-century, justifying whites-only spaces in trains and buses, hotels, theaters, schools and other public accommodations until the Supreme Court unanimously overruled it with their Brown v. the Board of Education decision in 1954. That decision led to the widespread desegregation of schools and the eventual stripping away of vestiges of the Jim Crow laws that discriminated against Black citizens.

The pardon recommendation came as New Orleans began a weekend marking the tumultuous integration of its public schools on Nov. 14, 1960, six years after the Brown decision.

“I think it will be a very good thing to pardon Mr. Homer Plessy after all these years,” Leona Tate, 67, said at a City Hall news conference, where she stood between Gail Etienne and Tessie Prevost. The three, as 6 year olds, were escorted by U.S. marshals past angry white mobs and into McDonogh #19 elementary school building, the same day Ruby Bridges, the subject of an iconic Norman Rockwell painting, entered the all-white William Franz Elementary School in another part of town.

Keith Plessy, 64, who is descended from a cousin of Homer Plessy, attended the news conference. Later, he told the pardon board that he remembers meeting civil rights icon Rosa Parks, who refused in 1955 to leave a whites-only seat on a bus in Birmingham, Alabama, and kneeling to honor her.

“She said to me, ‘Get up boy, your name is Plessy — you’ve got work to do,’” Keith Plessy said.

Homer Plessy, described in the Supreme Court opinion as of “one-eighth African blood,” was arrested in 1892 after boarding the train car as part of an effort by civil rights activists to challenge a state law that mandated segregated seating. The 18-member Citizens Committee was trying to overcome laws that rolled back post-Civil War advances in equality.

Keith Plessy and Phoebe Ferguson, descendants of the principals in the Plessy V. Ferguson court case, pose for a photograph in front of a historical marker in New Orleans, on Tuesday, June 7, 2011. Homer Plessy, the namesake of the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1896 “separate but equal” ruling, is being considered for a posthumous pardon. The Creole man of color died with a conviction still on his record for refusing to leave a whites-only train car in New Orleans in 1892. (AP Photo/Bill Haber, File)

Plessy, a 30-year-old shoemaker, lacked the business, political and educational accomplishments of most of the other members, Keith Weldon Medley wrote in the book ”We As Freemen: Plessy v. Ferguson.”

“His one attribute was being white enough to gain access to the train and black enough to be arrested for doing so,” Medley wrote.

More than six decades before Parks was arrested in Alabama, police forcibly removed Plessy from the car, and he was imprisoned in the parish jail.

The Supreme Court ruled in Plessy v. Ferguson that state racial segregation laws didn’t violate the Constitution as long as the facilities for the races were of equal quality.

Plessy pleaded guilty to violating the Separate Car Act a year later and was fined $25. He died in 1925 with the conviction still on his record.

Keith Plessy and Phoebe Ferguson, the great-great-granddaughter of John Howard Ferguson, the judge who oversaw his case in Orleans Parish Criminal District Court, now lead a nonprofit that advocates for civil rights education.

“We cannot undo the wrongs of the past but we can and should acknowledge them,” Phoebe Ferguson told the pardon board.

The New Orleans City Council honored Plessy’s role in history in 2018 by giving his name to a section of the street where he tried to board the train.

Keith Plessy and Phoebe Ferguson both credited New Orleans District Attorney Jason Williams’ Civil Rights Office with seeking the pardon. Williams, who took office in January, ran for the open district attorney’s post on a reform platform, with a stress on reviewing and reversing wrongful past convictions.

In an interview Friday, Williams noted that Plessy pleaded guilty to the Separate Car Act violation on Jan. 11, 1897 — exactly 124 years before Williams took office. “I think it just means that this was absolutely meant to be,” Williams said.

The move to pardon Plessy comes amid a wider discussion about whether convictions or arrest records of civil rights activists should be overturned or removed.

Claudette Colvin, a Black woman who was 15 when she refused to move to the back of a bus months before Parks did so, has sued to wipe out her conviction. Civil rights attorney Fred Gray, who represented Parks and Martin Luther King Jr., has said he might file a suit to do the same for them.

But some civil rights advocates have said they don’t want their arrest records expunged.

King biographer Clayborne Carson called his own civil rights arrest record “a badge of honor.” Expunging the record “doesn’t change the historical reality that you were arrested,” he told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

After the Supreme Court ruling in 1896, “Homer Plessy returned to obscurity,” Medley wrote.

He worked as a laborer, warehouseman, clerk and, starting in 1910, a collector for a Black-owned insurance company.

His obituary noted only the date and time of death and that he was the “beloved husband of Louise Bordenave.”

__

Associated Press reporters Melinda Deslatte in Baton Rouge, Kevin McGill in New Orleans and Sudhin Thanawala in Atlanta contributed to this report.

Americans give bosses same message in record numbers: I quit

By CHRISTOPHER RUGABER

- A hiring sign is placed at a booth for Jameson's Irish Pub during a job fair Wednesday, Sept. 22, 2021, in the West Hollywood section of Los Angeles. Americans quit their jobs at a record pace for the second straight month in September, while businesses and other employers continued to post a near-record number of available jobs. (AP Photo/Marcio Jose Sanchez, File)


WASHINGTON (AP) — Americans quit their jobs at a record pace for the second straight month in September, in many cases for more money elsewhere as companies bump up pay to fill job openings that are close to an all-time high.

The Labor Department said Friday that 4.4 million people quit their jobs in September, or about 3% of the nation’s workforce. That’s up from 4.3 million in August and far above the pre-pandemic level of 3.6 million. There were 10.4 million job openings, down from 10.6 million in August, which was revised higher.

The figures point to a historic level of turmoil in the job market as newly-empowered workers quit jobs, often for higher pay or better working conditions. Incomes are rising, Americans are spending more and the economy is growing, and employers have ramped up hiring to keep pace. Rising inflation, however, is offsetting much of the pay gains for workers.

Friday’s report follows last week’s jobs report, which showed that employers stepped up their hiring in October, adding 531,000 jobs, while the unemployment rate fell to 4.6%, from 4.8%. Hiring rebounded as the Delta wave, which had restrained job gains in August and September, faded.

It is typically perceived as a signal of worker confidence when people leave the jobs they hold. The vast majority of people quit for a new position.

The number of available jobs has topped 10 million for four consecutive months. The record before the pandemic was 7.5 million. There were more job openings in September than the 7.7 million unemployed, illustrating the difficulties so many companies have had finding workers.

In addition to the number of unemployed, there are about 5 million fewer people looking for jobs compared with pre-pandemic trends, making it much harder for employers to hire. Economists cite many reasons for that decline: Some are mothers unable to find or afford child care, while others are avoiding taking jobs out of fear of contracting COVID-19. Stimulus checks this year and in 2020, as well as extra unemployment aid that has since expired, has given some families more savings and enabled them to hold off from looking for work.

Quitting has risen particularly sharply in industries that are mostly made up of in-person service jobs, such as restaurants, hotels, and retail, and factories where people work in close proximity. That suggests that at least some people quitting are doing so out of fear of COVID-19 and may be leaving the workforce.

Goldman Sachs, in a research note Thursday, estimates that most of the 5 million are older Americans who have decided to retire. Only about 1.7 million are aged 25 through 54, which economists consider prime working years.

Goldman estimates that most of those people in their prime working years will return to work in the coming months, but that would still leave a much smaller workforce than before the pandemic. That could leave employers facing labor shortages for months or even years.

Businesses in other countries are facing similar challenges, leading to pay gains and higher inflation in countries like Canada and the United Kingdom.

Competition for U.S. workers is intense for retailers and delivery companies, particularly as they staff up for what is expected to be a healthy winter holiday shopping season.

Online giant Amazon is hiring 125,000 permanent drivers and warehouse workers and offer pay between $18 and $22 an hour. It’s also paying sign-on bonuses of up to $3,000.

Seasonal hiring is also ramping up. Package delivery company UPS is seeking to add 100,000 workers to help with the crush of holiday orders, and plans to make job offers to some applicants within 30 minutes.

Labor Dept. says a record 4.4M U.S. workers quit their jobs in September

By UPI Staff

A sign is seen on Tuesday at a Burger King restaurant in St. Louis, Mo., notifying customers of possible service delays due to a shortage of workers. Photo by Bill Greenblatt/UPI | License Photo

Nov. 12 (UPI) -- Almost 4 and a half million American workers quit their jobs during the month of September, according to Labor Department figures on Friday -- the most ever for a single month.

The department's Job Openings and Labor Turnover Survey, or JOLTS report, said that 4.4 million U.S. workers quit for the month.

A month earlier, in August, 4.3 million workers left their jobs. At the time, it was the largest figure in two decades.

The total number of separations for September, which also included layoffs and firings, was 6.2 million, the report said.

The Labor Department said in its report Friday that there were 6.5 million hirings nationwide during the month of September. File Photo by Gary C. Caskey/UPI

A number of factors are weighing on the job market, including the ongoing threat of COVID-19, difficulty in finding child care and employees who leave for better pay or improved working conditions elsewhere.

Friday's report noted that there were 10.4 million job openings in the United States on the final day of September, which is close to a record level.

"Over the 12 months ending in September 2021, hires totaled 73.3 million and separations totaled 67.7 million, yielding a net employment gain of 5.6 million," the department said in a statement. "These totals include workers who may have been hired and separated more than once during the year."

Human trafficking suit spreads to Hindu temples in 5 states

By DAVID PORTER

November 10, 2021

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FILE - The entrance to the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir is seen in Robbinsville Township, N.J., Tuesday, May 11, 2021. A lawsuit in which workers accuse a Hindu organization of human trafficking by luring them from India to build the temple in New Jersey for as little as $1.20 a day has widened to four other states. In the initial lawsuit filed in May, workers at the Hindu temple in Robbinsville, claimed leaders of the Hindu organization known as Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha, or BAPS, coerced them into signing employment agreements and forced them to work more than 12 hours per day with few days off, under the watch of security guards.

 (AP Photo/Seth Wenig, File)

A lawsuit in which workers accuse a Hindu organization of human trafficking by luring them from India to build a temple in New Jersey for as little as $1.20 a day has widened to four other states.

In the initial lawsuit filed in May, workers at a Hindu temple in Robbinsville, New Jersey, claimed leaders of the Hindu organization known as Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha, or BAPS, coerced them into signing employment agreements and forced them to work more than 12 hours per day with few days off, under the watch of security guards. They traveled to New Jersey under R-1 visas, which are meant for “those who minister, or work in religious vocations or occupations,” according to the lawsuit.

The amended lawsuit filed last month added several more workers to the lawsuit. The workers, who the lawsuit says were from marginalized communities in India, claim they were exploited at temples in Chino Hills, California, outside Los Angeles; Bartlett, Illinois, outside Chicago; Stafford, Texas, outside Houston; and Lilburn, Georgia, outside Atlanta.

“U.S. Government officials have authorized the use of R-1 visas for stone artisans for 20 years, and federal, state, and local government agencies have regularly visited and inspected all of the construction projects on which those artisans volunteered,” Paul Fishman, an attorney representing BAPS, said in an email Wednesday.

The workers in other states allege that, while they weren’t forced to work as many hours as their counterparts in New Jersey, they were paid well below standards set by federal and state minimum wage laws. Multiple workers named as plaintiffs worked at more than one of the temples, the lawsuit alleges, some for as long as eight or nine years in total.

Similar to the allegations in the initial suit against the Hindu temple in Robbinsville, outside the New Jersey capital of Trenton, workers at the temples in the other four states claim they weren’t allowed to have their passports and slept in large halls on the temple grounds that were monitored by security guards.

“At the Robbinsville temple and elsewhere, the defendants intentionally caused the workers to reasonably believe that if they tried to leave their work and the temple compounds, they would suffer physical restraint and serious harm,” the lawsuit claims.

The temples named in the lawsuit are all affiliated with BAPS, a corporation registered in Delaware and with offices in Piscataway, New Jersey.