Groups advocating for people detained in immigration facilities are calling for the reinstatement of a program which allowed 500 free minutes of phone calls per month.

In recent weeks, Immigration and Customs Enforcement cut off the free domestic and international calls, telling advocates pandemic-era funding has run out.

Rosa Santana, interim co-executive director of the Envision Freedom Fund, said families of the detainees often struggle to afford the calls, which can cost up to $3 for 15 minutes.

"Usually the person who is in detention is the breadwinner and now families have to be able to figure out how they could bring food and everything that the breadwinner used to bring, pay rent," Santana pointed out. "And on top of that now, it's having to pay for phone calls."

Immigration and Customs Enforcement did not respond to a request for comment. People in at least 16 ICE detention centers across the country have reported losing access to the free calls, including three sites in California: Golden State Annex, Mesa Verde Processing Center and Otay Mesa Detention Center.

Karim Golding, organizer for the nonprofit Freedom to Thrive, said the phone calls are a lifeline for people in detention; a connection to family that keeps their spirits up. In addition, human rights groups worry it could make it harder to monitor conditions on the inside.

"Absent the phones, how would we know that rights are being violated?" Golding asked. "How would we know if nobody has the ability to communicate?"

People in detention do still have access to work programs where they can earn about $1 for eight hours of work to spend on calls or items at the commissary.

The New York Police Department's new commissioner must address the agency's dwindling public trust as her tenure begins.

Jessica Tisch became the agency's top official after former commissioner Edward Caban resigned amid federal investigations. Past surveys show high trust in the department but a new survey of heavily policed neighborhoods paints a different picture.

Brett Stoudt, associate director of the Public Science Project, said it found people in such neighborhoods want crime handled differently.

"A significant number of these residents do not desire more investments in policing but instead desire approaches to public safety that invest in a broad set of supports and services, and institutions," Stoudt explained. "The kind that more fundamentally address the root causes of violence."

Other findings show people are fearful of their neighborhood's expanded police presence. Along with this, some said they have experienced physical or sexual violence from police officers. Stoudt noted this kind of policing mostly affects minorities in the city. The New York Civil Liberties Union finds Black people are 20% of the city's population, but were 60% of people police stopped in 2023.

Recommendations to fix the issues include increasing transparency for the department, firing officers who abuse their position for power and stopping the spread of misinformation from the agency.

Ileana Méndez-Peñate, program director for the group Communities United for Police Reform, said other recommendations aim to reduce the department's omnipresent role in some areas.

"The other policy recommendation related to that is the real need to invest in the fundamental needs of New Yorkers," Méndez-Peñate emphasized. "I talked about housing and education but also youth programs and services and quality city infrastructure through security. These are some of the top concerns."

There could be challenges to enacting the survey's solutions. One is the charter revisions passed on Election Day, since one of them gives the department more power. She added another challenge is financing, since the millions of dollars the city spends on the police department do not address the root causes of certain issues.


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By Christopher Blackwell and Loretta Pierre for The Appeal.
Broadcast version by Danielle Smith for Mississippi News Connection reporting for The Appeal-Public News Service Collaboration

About a year ago, a close friend, Garrett Felber, told me about a project close to his heart—the campaign to Free the Mississippi Five (MS5). 

The MS5 are the last remaining women in Mississippi sentenced to life with the possibility of parole after ten years before the state virtually abolished parole in 1995. Although they are, ostensibly, parole-eligible, the state has routinely denied their release without reasonable justification. They each have been imprisoned for more than 30 years.

The five have each taken responsibility for the harm they caused and spent decades pursuing growth and repair. Felber sent me interviews he conducted with each person about their lives and the repeated, arbitrary denials by the Mississippi Parole Board. One of the group, Loretta Pierre, has been denied parole 14 times, more than any other woman in the state’s history. 

The more I learned, the more I wanted to help. So I am sharing the words of Loretta Pierre, who tells us her story and introduces us to the other four women with whom she has spent nearly four decades in prison. —Chris Blackwell 

My name is Loretta Pierre. In 1985, when I was 20 years old and five months pregnant, I shot a woman during an argument. I immediately called 911 for help. But tragically, she did not survive. 

When the police arrived, I was arrested for aggravated assault and eventually charged with murder. Once my court proceedings began, I had five mistrials before I was convicted at my sixth trial. In 1989, I was sentenced to life with the possibility of parole after ten years. 

I have now been in prison for 36 years and denied parole 14 times. I hold the record in the state of Mississippi for the number of times a woman has been denied. 

Before my conviction, I had never spent a single day in jail. The son I was pregnant with then is now 38 years old, and he has three daughters of his own. I have never met them. My Mama, my strongest supporter, died in September 2017, brokenhearted that I was never released in her lifetime. My sister, who was 10 years old when I was arrested, is now 49. And my brother, who was 24, is now 63. My siblings still support me, but with each parole denial, our hope of reuniting becomes more elusive. Nevertheless, we communicate daily and refuse to let this unreasonable punishment break us. 

I have completed more than 50 classes, courses, and programs in prison. Yet, when I last met with the parole board in January 2022, my file was completely empty and looked as if I had wasted decades doing nothing. There was no record of the job I held for more than 23 years; none of the letters of support that professors, friends, and family had sent in; or the document promising me a job when I came home. What was available for the board was my disciplinary record—the rule violations levied against me for filing grievances against the Mississippi Department of Corrections (MDOC) during my captivity. 

It has been a never-ending cycle that I’ve had to endure, day after day, year after year. I was not sentenced to life without parole or death by incarceration. Nor were the four other women from MS5 I want to introduce you to.

Evelyn Smith, 82, aka Mama E, has been incarcerated for 32 years for murder. She is an amazing cook, always makes extra for her friends, and has a remedy for anyone who is sick. Mama E’s last parole hearing in January 2022 lasted three minutes. They told her to come back in five years. I delivered the board’s decision to her in the privacy of her room. We shared our pain together, aware that she may not have another five years left to live but her faith in God is strong and she still holds hope she will one day be released.

Lisa Crevitt, 59, was just 20 years old when she succumbed to drug-induced psychotic delusions and dropped her child from a bridge. She has held the same job during her nearly 40 years in prison and has never received a single rule violation report. Lisa’s ex-husband and the deceased child’s father is now a judge in Warren County, Mississippi. Many believe that his political influence has kept Lisa imprisoned. Her first parole date was in 1995. The board has denied her nine times. 

Anita Krecic, 65, has been incarcerated since 1987, after her then-boyfriend shot and killed a Mississippi Highway Patrolman. Anita’s co-defendant, who shot the trooper, was executed in 2002. While incarcerated, she has consistently worked a job, earned over 100 college credits, and maintained an exemplary behavior record. She displays strong values, morals, and ethics in her daily life and is currently enrolled in seminary school. But in the lead-up to each of her parole hearings, signs opposing her release are typically posted throughout the county where she was convicted. In 2022, she was denied by the board and told to return in 2030. 

Linda Ross, 62, has been incarcerated since 1989 for killing a man who attacked her. She has maintained a job throughout her incarceration and is currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree. She is very generous and loves to cook for friends. Linda loves to share stories with those incarcerated with her. 

Each time we are denied parole, the board cites the “serious nature” of our crimes. None of us can change what we did—only who we have become since. I have completed every program MDOC has made available to me. That this doesn’t seem to matter makes me think that those with authority see no value in the department’s rehabilitation courses. These programs feel like a sham, nothing more than a way for crooked authorities to generate funding while putting on a show for the public. 

Change will not happen unless the public pressures those who oppress us without oversight. Without transparency and accountability, we five—and many like us across the country—will be forced to die behind these towering walls—not to provide safety for our communities, but for retribution and punishment. 

For this to change, we need your help! Our website includes our clemency petitions, ways to support us, and addresses to contact us—please share on social media so others can learn about our plight. Relationships and correspondence can be life-saving forms of support. For too long the parole board in Mississippi has been able to act as judge, jury, and executioner. We must build our collective strength to combat this repressive system. It is far past time for us to get a chance to return to our communities. 


Christopher Blackwell and Loretta Pierre wrote this article for The Appeal.


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Ten years ago today, 12-year-old Tamir Rice was shot by Cleveland police while holding a toy gun, sparking national protests for police reform.

Today, a Detroit man who spent nine years wrongfully imprisoned has turned his own experience into a force for change.

Eric Anderson, wrongfully convicted of armed robbery in 2010 at age 20, was exonerated in 2019. He's now cofounder of the Organization of Exonerees, a nonprofit supporting those who are wrongfully convicted. Anderson said his own testimony helps train police officers.

"With the hope that them hearing our stories, they can approach their job cautiously," Anderson explained. "We also let them know, 'If y'all do nefarious things, it's going to come back and bite y'all.' Keep it clean across the board. Don't plant evidence, don't lie, don't try to take away stuff in order to get a conviction."

At the time of the crime he was accused of, evidence revealed Anderson was more than 10 miles away at a restaurant, where he'd been shot in the foot as a bystander to an altercation. Experts believe 1% to 3% of people in prison nationwide could be innocent, which may mean up to 1,000 people in Michigan are wrongfully incarcerated.

After a four-year effort, Anderson and other advocates for safer policing are making a final push in Michigan's lame-duck legislative session, for the Police Improvement and Community Relations Bill Package, which includes guidelines for police use of force, would boost transparency in investigations and improve training on de-escalation and bias.

Anderson loves the proposals, mainly for their focus on officer training and de-escalation.

"Being an officer of the law and a person that's here to serve and protect us, you're supposed to be fluent in the skills of de-escalation," Anderson contended. "Trying to calm somebody down so you can come to the conclusion about what's really going on and the next course of action."

As of 2023, Michigan's compensation fund has given more than $50 million to exonerees, although delays persist for some in getting support.