Worker-owned cannabis cooperatives in Rhode Island are striving to help those affected by the war on drugs.

State law mandates at least six retail cannabis licenses be awarded to these co-ops, which give members a say in business operations as well as a share of profits.

Emma Karnes, organizer for the United Food and Commercial Workers Local 328, said the greatest challenge is gaining access to capital.

"The entrepreneurs in this project are by and large people without access to wealthy networks and they're up against very, very deep-pocketed corporate players," Karnes explained. "The competition is really fierce and the resources are really slim."

Karnes pointed out her union is working with other community-based groups to recruit co-op members and equip them with the resources they need. With sales of $100 million this year, Rhode Island has the nation's smallest cannabis market.

Studies have shown minorities were incarcerated for cannabis use at significantly higher rates than white people, affecting their eligibility for housing and employment. The worker co-op movement aims to ensure those affected can find job security and take ownership of cannabis legalization.

David-Allen Sumner Sr., organizer for Co-op Rhody and Break the Cycle, said it is about building generational wealth.

"With all the money that's being made, it's not being shared equally or even fairly," Sumner contended. "This is where the cooperative business model in cannabis comes into play because it is such a lucrative business."

Sumner added formerly incarcerated people like himself are learning the technical and business side of cannabis to run a successful dispensary. He stressed the worker co-op model has the potential to truly help impoverished communities and it cannot happen soon enough.

Alabama professors and students, along with the Alabama State Conference of the NAACP, have filed a federal lawsuit challenging Senate Bill 129, a law they argued restricts academic freedom and targets marginalized groups.

Alison Mollman, legal director of the ACLU of Alabama, said the law, which took effect in October, limits their ability to teach and learn about topics related to race, gender, structural inequality and social justice. She contended the vague and restrictive nature of the measure has created confusion and fear on campuses across the state, even leading to investigations of professors for teaching topics they have covered long before DEI became a prominent issue.

"These are political science, social work professors who are teaching curriculum that is understood to be reasonable and legitimate in their field," Mollman explained.

Backers believe the law prevents the promotion of political or ideological agendas in public universities and ensures state funding is not used to support programs or teachings they consider divisive or discriminatory. However, Mollman argued the law violates First Amendment protections by censoring speech, restricting access to information and controlling university funding for student organizations.

Mollman also stressed the law violates the 14th Amendment by being so vague it denies educators and students their right to due process and by intentionally discriminating against Black faculty and students, violating equal protection rights. She also pointed to other impacts, such as the Black Student Union losing its meeting space, which was turned into a food pantry, and LGBTQIA student groups losing funding and meeting spaces, adding the law's confusion has led to even more puzzling scenarios on campuses.

"There was a poster celebrating women scientists and administrators forced that poster to be taken down out of concern that it could violate SB 129," Mollman observed. "They told professors and students, 'You can put up a poster with women scientists pictured, but you can't celebrate women scientists on their own.'"

The complaint, filed Tuesday, named Gov. Kay Ivey and members of the University of Alabama Board of Trustees, including President Pro Tempore Scott Phelps, in their official capacities.


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By Dakarai Turner for WISH-TV.
Broadcast version by Joe Ulery for Indiana News Service reporting for the WISH-TV-Free Press Indiana-Public News Service Collaboration

Doug Carter, the superintendent of the Indiana State Police, is just days away from stepping down after leading the state’s largest police force for over a decade.

As his tenure comes to a close, Carter reflected on a career that has spanned four decades, marked by both personal and professional challenges, triumphs and tragedies.

Carter’s journey in law enforcement began in 1984. He rose through the ranks to become Indiana’s top cop in 2013.

His leadership over the state police has seen him through numerous high-profile cases and incidents, but also through grief and heartache. Carter will retire as Gov.-elect Mike Braun assumes office in January.

Carter said, “It’s been my life. I remember when I called my dad and told him I had an interview with (former governor) Mike Pence for this position.”

Carter served two governors, navigating through turbulent times, including the loss of five law enforcement officers on duty within the first six months of 2023. Among them: troopers James Bailey and Aaron Smith.

Carter was tasked with the somber duty of presenting the American flags draped over their caskets to their grieving families.

Carter also led the state police during some of Indiana’s most heartbreaking and unresolved cases, such as the 2016 deaths of four young Black girls in Flora, killed in an arson that remains unsolved. Despite the challenges of the investigation, Carter maintains hope.

“People talk about a cold case, but as long as people are alive, it’s not cold,” he said, adding that he believes the fire may not have been an intentional murder.

Another case that Carter thinks about is the 2017 murders of two teenage girls, Abby Williams and Libby German, in Delphi. The murders shocked the state and launched a yearslong search for the killer, who was convicted earlier this month.

While the Delphi Murders case was not directly handled by the state police, Carter often found himself in the public eye as the face of the investigation. A judge has a gag order in place until the convicted killer’s sentencing set for Dec. 20.

“I can’t think of a case in our history that has gained that much attention for that length of time,” Carter said.

Asked if he had run into “political influence” during any investigation, Carter said, “I would not be sitting here If I did. I would retire that day.”

A handwritten note that bears the names of the all six girls — Keyana, Keyara, Kerriele, Kionnie, Abby and Libby — sits on his desk, affixed to a rock he said was given to him by members of the Flora community after the fire there.

Carter’s leadership, he said, is also defined by his efforts to address policing reforms, particularly in the wake of high-profile deaths of Black men at the hands of law enforcement, most notably George Floyd in 2020.

“We’re a damaged profession, and it’s going to take time to climb out of that,” he said.

Carter said he believes conversations race and policing are essential to improving the culture of law enforcement.

Carter said the scrutiny on police forces is deserved.

Carter has also used his final years to push for changes within the department, including improvements in the state’s aviation unit and forensic laboratory systems, which had been operating out of outdated facilities.

However, he expressed regret about leaving behind a “broken” recruitment system.

“We have fewer troopers today than we had in 1984 when I started,” Carter said. “And that’s one of my biggest regrets.”

As Carter prepares for retirement, he envisions a quieter life, perhaps carving wood in the comfort of his home, he said.

Before he leaves, Carter has a message for his successor.

“Always care about others, not yourself,” he said. “That’s the most important thing I would say.”


Dakarai Turner wrote this article for WISH-TV.


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By Frank Jossi for Energy News Network.
Broadcast version by Mike Moen for Minnesota News Connection reporting for the Solutions Journalism Network-Public News Service Collaboration

One installation at a time, a solar nonprofit that matches socially conscious investors' cash with lower-income homeowners is spreading the benefits of solar in North Minneapolis.

Solstar was formed three years ago by solar entrepreneur Ralph Jacobson following his retirement from IPS Solar, the pioneering Twin Cities' solar company he founded three decades ago earlier.

In his entire career, "I hardly ever had Black customers or Black subcontractors," Jacobson recalled.

Solstar is a collective effort for clean energy leaders in North Minneapolis to address those racial disparities.

Jacobson, 71, works his network to persuade wealthy individuals to invest in residential solar installations. Kristel Porter, a well-known community activist, recruits low- or moderate-income homeowners who are interested in having solar on their homes. J.T. Thomas of the Black-owned Go Solar Construction trains and supervises students who help install the projects.

Solstar takes care of applications for all of the available incentives. Homeowners pay nothing and immediately benefit from a lower monthly electricity bill.

"It's a no-brainer," said Jacques Beech, who signed up with Solstar and now has solar panels on the roof of the 2,700-square-foot ranch home he shares with his wife and two kids.

His electricity bill so far has dropped by around $100 a month.

'It has been harder than expected'

The model is working, though slower than Solstar's founders would have hoped. The nonprofit initially wanted to finish 24 projects in its first two years. Instead, it's completed ten and expects to hit the two dozen mark later this year.

"We found it has been harder than expected and needed a different skill set," Jacobson said.

Among the challenges were managing investors, timing projects around incentives, convincing skeptical homeowners the offer wasn't too good to be true, and keeping trainees employed in the still sporadic industry.

Solstar's financing is complex. The nonprofit pays for installations by attracting investors and offering them a modest rate of return. Three major equity investors take advantage of the tax credits and depreciation on the projects. Solstar's microlenders do not get tax credits but instead receive 3.5% on investments ranging from $5,000 to $50,000.

Solstar investors reduce their taxes by taking advantage of the 30% tax credit and a six-year depreciation schedule on solar projects. After exhausting tax incentives, Solstar plans to sell the solar systems to their commercial and residential customers at a significantly reduced price. Clients hosting Solstar panels on their roofs receive discounts on their electricity by as much as 20% and, in some cases, more.

Jacobson reduces his costs by taking advantage of other programs. Every project is sized up to 120% of the client's electricity use, the highest amount allowed under Xcel Energy's Solar Rewards incentive program. Solar Rewards pays more per kilowatt hour for participating low-income households. A production incentive from the city of Minneapolis's Green Zone program adds another layer of support.

None of this is easily absorbed by investors or clients. Jacobson quickly discovered interested investors, but many would require multiple conversations and several weeks of consideration before betting on his new program.

Eventually, crowdsourcing cash paid off. "I certainly developed a bit of a following, a little community of maybe 70 to 75 people, who have put money into these projects," he said.

One of those is Eric Pasi, a former partner at IPS Solar who now runs the community solar company Enterprise Energy. He saw an opportunity to move solar beyond helping reduce energy bills of middle- and upper-class clients to a BIPOC mixed-income neighborhood.

"We love projects like this because for a modest investment the impact for these projects is so great," said Pasi, who is also a board member of Fresh Energy, which publishes the Energy News Network.

Job-training challenges

After Solstar began knocking on doors of North Minneapolis residents in early 2021, Jacobson discovered the annual budget for Xcel's Solar Rewards program had already run out of money for the year. Porter kept marketing Solstar and speaking to potential clients to prepare installations for 2022 and 2023.

The Solar Rewards issue was just the start of problems. "I didn't realize we were going to run into as many potholes as we ended up running into," Porter said.

Some homeowners sat on the fence, not making a final decision for months. At least four who signed up in 2023 delayed solar projections because they needed new roofs after an August hail storm.

Trying to pay professional contractors and their trainees became expensive and "tricky and financially just too much," Porter said.

Solstar eventually broadened the contractor pool beyond Go Solar to finish projects within the Solar Rewards deadlines. If a project does not meet deadlines, Solstar would have to reapply for Solar Rewards the following year "and go through the whole process again," Porter said.

Other projects were slowed when Xcel laid off several employees who were familiar with Solstar and its model.

Solstar's job training pipeline has also run into hurdles. Thomas onboards students from training programs offered by the city of Minneapolis and partnering institutions such as the Regional Apprenticeship Training Center. Four students who received classroom training then worked with Thomas on Solstar projects.

Some students struggle with getting transportation to installation jobs, he said. Training is often scheduled so far in advance that job opportunities may not be immediately available when students finish their classes.

Many students can't spend a month or two waiting for a job, Thomas said, and when a job emerges, they may not be available because they are already working.

"It's taken a while to ramp up, but now it seems like the jobs are trickling in and we're getting the processes down," he said. "Hopefully, as we go on to it next year, it will be a little more seamless."

Replicating the model

Still, according to attorney Jeremy Kalin, the program's approach and hard-won success means that other nonprofits could use the same approach. His firm, Avisen, has worked with similar programs in Maryland and others are starting in Arizona, Georgia and New Mexico.

The difference between Solstar and those initiatives is that Jacobson recruited wealthy investors who could take advantage of the tax credits and depreciation. Nonprofits in other states will use the Inflation Reduction Act's "direct pay" option rather than rely on investors. The act allows nonprofits and government agencies to receive tax credits as cashback from the IRS.

Nonprofits using direct pay did not have a way to "monetize the depreciation deduction," but "they have a simpler task because finding tax credit investors with the right kind of taxable income is hard," Kalin said.

Jacobson has not determined whether Solstar will continue the same structure or lean into direct pay. He said several early investors in Solstar and a separate initiative he helps lead in the Red Lake Indian community want to continue participating in Solstar.

Early customers like the program. Beech said he would have never made such a significant investment with such a long payback without the program. "It's not a cost-effective thing, unless you just have the money, which I don't," Beech said. "This is an affordable way to do it."

After completing the first iteration of Solstar, Jacobson wants to start another limited liability company and start recruiting 24 more homes and small businesses. "If White people can build wealth by owning solar, then I guess Black people should be able to build wealth by owning solar, too," he said.


Frank Jossi wrote this article for Energy News Network.


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