On a gloomy Sunday afternoon in Chicago, Sgt. Andrew Dakuras hopped out of his patrol car in front of a downtown highrise and strolled into the elevator, finishing a text as the doors closed. He rode up to the 31st floor, exited and stopped at the third door on the left. He knocked: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. 

“One second, I’m getting dressed,” yelled a voice from behind the door, captured on Dakuras’ body-worn camera. A minute passed. “Coming…” 

When Janette Bass, a petite, fifty-nine-year-old white woman, finally unlocked the entrance to her condo on this day in 2019, she also opened another door: one that led her to being taken against her will to a hospital emergency room for a psychiatric evaluation based solely on the decision of a police officer. That has now become an increasingly common event, one experienced by six Chicagoans every day, according to 2024 data gathered by Invisible Institute and MindSite News.

That summer day six years ago, Dakuras walked into disarray—dishes and pans scattered around the kitchen, papers paving the way to the dining area. Bass tried to tell Dakuras what happened.

The main water line broke in the building. A group of men entered her apartment when she wasn’t dressed and refused to leave. She tried to complain and was banned from the building office. She called the police several times. She changed the locks on her door at a cost of $200. She finally filed a police report and now wants to fill in missing details, she said. Dakuras declined to sit and the conversation took a turn.

“Ma’am, if you talk to the detective, the detective can amend it,” Dakuras said. Growing agitated, he called the officer who she said took the original report. She’s already talked to him multiple times, she tells Dakuras. His voice grows louder. “Ma’am, I’m talking on the phone. Do not interrupt me.”

She tries to plead her case, then pauses. “Don’t scream at me, sir. I’m the victim,” Bass says. Moments later, Dakuras ends the call, and walks to the door to leave. She asks for his name and takes a picture of him. He doubles back, but refuses to file an additional report.

“Ma’am, are you in crisis?” he asks.

“Because of you,” she retorts.

“Are you under the treatment of any doctors?” Dakuras continues.

She tells him to leave. He refuses and radios for an ambulance. “What hospital can I take you to?” Dakuras asks. “You can go one of two ways: you can go voluntarily or you can go involuntarily.”

Bass calls a friend and tells them she’s being arrested. She asks the officer to leave more than sixty times over the next four minutes as he follows her around the apartment. Then she flees. 

“I felt I had nowhere to go,” Bass later told Invisible Institute and MindSite News. “I’m like a trapped rat.” 

Dakuras chases her down the stairs and into the hallway on the 27th floor, throws her onto the ground by her shirt and handcuffs her. “Janette, this is not how rational people act,” Dakuras says. “This is not normal.”

Bass was taken to Northwestern Memorial Hospital for a psychiatric evaluation, then transferred to another hospital and held against her will for what she recalled as a “couple days” before being released. 

Normal

The Chicago Police Department handles over a hundred mental health-related incidents every day. Some end in arrests, some may lead to voluntary transport to medical facilities and some end with no action taken at all. But in recent years, data obtained by Invisible Institute and MindSite News shows officers are increasingly turning to a more controversial option: forced hospitalization, detaining people against their wishes at a hospital emergency room for a psychiatric evaluation. 

For more than two years, the two newsrooms obtained and analyzed data from the Chicago Police Department on its handling of mental health-related incidents. Between 2023 and 2024, the first years for which comprehensive data is available, the number of police-initiated hospitalizations increased from 1,764 to 2,319—an increase of more than 30 percent. During these years, more than 20% of mental health calls responded to by Chicago police resulted in an officer deciding to forcibly hospitalize someone.

In total, police have involuntarily hospitalized people for psychiatric reasons at least 6,700 times since 2021, according to the analysis. Chicago police officials did not respond to a list of questions about use of forced hospitalization.

On paper, the city has created an alternative response program intended to divert individuals from both arrest or forced care. In 2021, the Crisis Assistance Response and Engagement (CARE) program began operating in a handful of police districts on the South and West Sides as a co-response model between police and mental health providers. In 2023, police were removed from the teams. 

But reporting from MindSite News and Medill Investigative Lab-Chicago has shown how limited funding, inter-department turf battles, and shifting priorities have hampered the program’s growth and ability to respond to all relevant mental health calls. With federal funding for the program expiring soon, its future is in question.

“Police involvement makes these encounters inherently carceral and violent,” said Jordyn Jensen, executive director of the Center for Racial and Disability Justice at Northwestern’s law school. “Police are trained to enforce compliance, not provide care.”

While involuntary commitment is supposed to be a last resort, patients’ advocates, policy researchers and many clinicians say its increasing use by police officers with minimal mental health training and little oversight frequently leads to bad outcomes — especially when employed after a rough encounter with law enforcement. 

Jamelia Morgan, founding faculty director of the center, focuses her research on the intersection of race, gender and disability. In 2023, she wrote an article questioning whether involuntary commitments are in conflict with protections in the Fourth Amendment against unreasonable search and seizure by government authorities.

Morgan argues that “non-coercive, non-punitive” approaches to bringing people into treatment are more likely to keep people engaged—whether it’s taking medications or participating in psychotherapy. Forcing a person to get services may get them treatment once, she told Invisible Institute and MindSite News, “but in the future, the level of engagement goes down along with the treatment outcomes.” 

The new ‘default’ response 

Police officers can initiate a forced hospitalization for a person they believe is likely to harm themselves or others under the terms of Illinois’ Mental Health and Developmental Disabilities Code and bring the person to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. A medical professional can then place the person on a psychiatric hold and keep them against their will for up to three days until a court hearing is held at the hospital. If a judge accepts the testimony of medical professionals that the person requires ongoing treatment, they can then be held for up to ninety days at a handful of troubled state facilities run by the Illinois Department of Human Services (IDHS) or over two dozen private institutions. 

Involuntary commitment has become the “default” response to mental health crises in Illinois, according to a 2025 article in the Illinois Bar Journal. For patients, it mirrors incarceration; for police, it’s similar to an arrest—without the necessity of a crime. 

It also pushes people into a largely untracked system that can leave the person in crisis traumatized and unwilling to seek further treatment, or further cycling in and out of forced treatment and jails. No state body tracks information about initial forced hospitalizations, hearing processes or outcomes, according to a spokesperson for IDHS. 

“Involuntary commitment is generally a traumatic, not therapeutic experience, often ending in handcuffs,” said Jensen. “Being handcuffed to a bed in an emergency room with a cop outside your door—that’s not a therapeutic experience for anyone. Research also shows that forced hospitalization can lead to long-term disengagement from mental health services and deep mistrust of providers.”

Cassie, twenty-three, was a student at a Chicago college in 2020 and 2021 when they were twice taken to psychiatric hospitals against their will, they told Invisible Institute and MindSite News. The first hospital stint was initiated by family and the second by a school counselor. Cassie, who asked to be identified by their first name only, described forced hospitalization as a “carceral institution” in an interview with Invisible Institute and MindSite News. 

They recall being strip-searched by staff multiple times a day checking for evidence of self-harm. They couldn’t shower alone or use a bottle of soap without a staff member present. They were also sedated, their only choice a pill or an injection.

“You don’t have any autonomy over your body, over your time, over your possessions. You are not allowed to leave,” Cassie said. “It’s very dehumanizing.”

The experience left Cassie wary of calling suicide hotlines for help or talking about their mental health experiences—for fear that people will dismiss their perspective or justify their previous involuntary commitments. 

Involuntary hospitalizations are common in the United States, and they are poorly tracked. A recent paper published by the Federal Reserve Bank of New York offered a figure of 1.2 million involuntary hospitalizations per year as a rough estimate—and likely an undercount. The number roughly matches the entire state and federal prison population of the country.

The figure was based on an extrapolation of data contained in a 2021 research paper that used estimates from twenty-five states to come to a national involuntary commitment rate of 357 people per 100,000 in population. That 2021 paper also found that data on involuntary commitment was “sparse” and that only twenty-two states had collected continuous data from 2012 to 2016.

While many people experiencing a deep psychiatric crisis can be stabilized in a hospital setting, research suggests patients frequently suffer long-term negative effects. The New York Fed study analyzed data in Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, using a research strategy that is almost uniquely possible in that county because of the comprehensive data it collects. 

Researchers looked at what happened to a group of people who were reported to local authorities as being in crisis and were seen as being judgment calls—some physicians evaluating them would choose to involuntarily hospitalize them and others would not. For that group of people, the researchers found that hospitalizing them nearly doubled their risk of dying by suicide or overdose and nearly doubled their chances of being charged with a violent crime in the three months after their evaluation compared to those who were not hospitalized after their evaluations.


The study also found one out of five people died within five years of their evaluation—a rate higher than those leaving jail, enrolling in homeless shelters or living with severe mental illness in general. Twenty-four percent are charged with a crime within a year of the evaluation, the study found.

Locked Up

For Janette Bass, the trauma of her hospital stay didn’t end with her release. About two weeks later, Officer Dakuras heard a familiar address over the radio and volunteered to take the call. “This is my girl, Janette,” he said over the radio. 

Minutes later, Dakuras and two officers are on her floor, and he yells her name as she opens her door. She immediately retreats, slamming her door after realizing it’s him. “You don’t want to see us,” Dakuras says as the other officers laugh.

Bass says being “locked up” in the hospital left her with post-traumatic stress disorder and night terrors that continue today. For months after, she stayed in bed, causing her to gain weight and develop diabetes, she said in a lawsuit she filed against Dakuras and the department in November 2019.

The city settled her case for $332,500 in October 2024. She also filed a complaint with the city, but the Civilian Office of Police Accountability found no “obvious misconduct” and closed the case without a finding. 

“I have a lot of anxiety. I can’t get near police. I’m scared to death of them,” Bass said in her deposition. “It’s really scary when it’s somebody of authority that can arrest you falsely.”

In a recent interview with Invisible Institute and MindSite News, Bass said she moved across the country to avoid Dakuras but still feels frightened when she sees police. 

The National Agenda

Involuntary mental health treatment has long been controversial. Until the 1960s, there were few safeguards preventing people deemed mentally ill from being hospitalized against their will, and abusive treatment in mental asylums was common. In the 1960s and 70s, following the closure of many large mental institutions, legislation aimed at protecting patients rights against indefinite involuntary commitment passed in most states, while leaving in place emergency holds by law enforcement and others. In broad terms, these laws aimed to limit the use of involuntary hospitalization to cases where people were deemed to be a threat to themselves or others, using a controversial standard later enshrined nationally by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1975. 

In recent years, some politicians and policy groups have pushed hard for broader use of forced mental health treatment as a way to address visible drug use, the presence of unhoused, mentally ill people on the streets and incidents of violence committed by people with mental illness.


It’s a policy with significant public and bipartisan support, pursued in somewhat different forms by the Trump administration and Democratic elected officials from California to New York. And it signals a likely increased role for police in forced treatment across the country. 

While no Illinois elected official has made a significant push for such policies, a Chicago Sun-Times investigation earlier this year looked at acts of violence committed by a small number of people with histories of severe mental illness. The article reported on efforts to expand use of a legal process known as outpatient civil commitment that empowers judges to order a person with a history of psychiatric hospitalizations or violence to receive outpatient treatment, even if they don’t want it. 

In New York, where outpatient civil commitment has been in use since 1999, advocates have questioned its ethics and effectiveness. The practice “strips individuals of their autonomy, stigmatizes mental illness, and potentially worsens mental health conditions,” according to a report published this year by New York Lawyers for the Public Interest. Advocates argue that it is not a replacement for community-based mental healthcare.

“There is no evidence that involuntary commitment offers long-term benefits, and significant reasons to believe that expanding the practice will cause harm,” wrote Carl Coleman, a legal bioethics professor at Seton Hall University School of Law, in the introduction to a paper opposing the expanded use of involuntary commitment. 

“Involuntary commitment seems to be increasingly presented as a response to homelessness, especially mentally ill people who are homeless, and it’s just not an appropriate response,” Coleman said in an interview. “The idea that simply because someone is mentally ill, they have no right to have a say about what happens to them, is unjust. That’s not how healthcare normally works.”

Even when police suggest—but don’t say they are requiring—hospital treatment, people may not feel they have a choice.

“There’s a power imbalance there, especially when police are first responders,” said Jensen. “People might, technically, agree to go to the hospital because they’re met with no other option, but that agreement is happening in the presence of an armed officer, so under the threat of force without fully understanding their rights or true alternatives.”

Any police officer in Illinois has the authority to hospitalize a person they deem to be a danger to themselves or others; it doesn’t matter how new the officer is or how familiar they are with mental health crises. 

‘Boom! It’s over with quick.’

A CPD officer interviewed by Invisible Institute who joined the force in 2022 was already filing petitions to involuntarily commit people during her probationary period, the first eighteen months on the force. Hospital staff members provided her with guidance and paperwork: “Here’s the cheat sheet. You know what to do,” she recalled them telling her.

“Boom! It’s over with quick,” she said in an interview. “You go back to the station, you write your report. The next day you come to work you’ll see the same individual on the corner.”

While involuntary commitment has been pitched as a way to break the cycle of incarceration for some people with mental illness, the encounters can be dangerous and violent. People in crisis are often tackled and forcefully handcuffed before being taken to the hospital, according to a review of police department records.

In some cases, officers respond with force, using guns, tasers, batons or mace when they respond to a call and find a person holding a knife, screwdriver or other object they perceive as a weapon. Even force deemed less-than-lethal can lead to fatal encounters, reporting has shown

Chicago police recruits take part in a few hours of basic training in techniques for managing and deescalating mental health crises. Training materials for new recruits on responses to mental health show that the overriding message is that people experiencing a mental health crisis should be hospitalized—whether they want to be or not.

The officer says when she encounters mentally ill people committing retail theft or other small crimes, she is faced with a decision: Arrest them for retail theft and they’ll “get right back out and go to the same spot and do whatever they’ve been doing,” she said. “What’s the point of taking them to jail? It’s better if I take them to the hospital to try to give them some help.” 

For people experiencing mental health crises in Chicago, at least some alternatives to arrest and hospitalization exist. In 2020, the state human services department started the Living Room Program to fund crisis respite programs aimed at diverting crises and avoiding hospitalization, including two sites in Chicago: Thresholds in Uptown and Healthcare Alternative Systems in Belmont-Cragin. 

The program is mentioned in police department guidelines on mental health admissions released in 2023, but the department does not appear to be a major source of referrals. Since July 2024, 8,700 of 12,400 unique visitors to Living Room programs throughout the state were walk-ins, and 3,700 were referred by law enforcement, EMTs, fire departments, hospitals, churches, or other agencies, according to IDHS spokesperson Daisy Contreras.

“Living Room providers continuously work to raise awareness about their services among law enforcement, focusing on officers’ ability to refer individuals in behavioral health crisis to a Living Room as an alternative to an emergency room, jail, or other carceral settings,” Contreras wrote in an email. 

‘Gasoline on the Fire’

When Dakuras came to Janette Bass’s apartment in 2019, he had not taken part in any training on how to respond to mental health incidents, according to his later deposition. But he believed she was suicidal, even though he never asked. 

He claimed that Bass’s actions showed that she might harm herself: She said yes when asked if she was in crisis though she sardonically blamed him for causing it, ran into the hallway without her shoes on, and refused to be evaluated by paramedics.

Camera footage shows Dakuras radioed for a mental health transport immediately after Bass told him he was causing her distress and then followed her around her apartment. The other reasons he cites in his deposition for initiating the hospitalization didn’t occur until after he had already called for an ambulance.

“It’s clear as day she asked him to leave and he’s just pouring gasoline on the fire,” Gregory Kulis, an attorney who represented Bass in her lawsuit against the city, told Invisible Institute. “It’s textbook egging somebody on.” 

While Illinois law allows police to connect people in psychological distress with healthcare, Kulis said it can be abused by officers acting in bad faith. “It’s a tool that occasionally some police officers might use to protect their own unlawful acts,” he said.

This was not the first time Chicagoans complained about Dakuras, or the only incident where the city was forced to pay for his actions. According to Invisible Institute’s Civic Police Data Project, eighty-two allegations of misconduct have been made against Dakuras including illegal searches, property damage and false arrests. At least twenty-three use of force reports have also been filed, including for an incident where Dakuras allegedly beat and kicked a Chicago Cubs fan during the 2016 World Series celebration outside Wrigley Field. In 2021, a federal jury awarded the fan $54,000 in damages.

In July 2024, while off-duty, Dakuras was caught on video calling another bar patron the n-word during an altercation. That same night Dakuras allegedly got into a heated argument with two other off-duty officers after he made unwanted sexual advances toward a woman at a party. According to complaint records, Dakuras allegedly became enraged when the officers asked him to leave the woman alone and called them the n-word during their confrontation. 

Dakuras has also been accused of sexually assaulting another woman in 2023.

Now a lieutenant, Dakuras continues to collect a salary of at least $165,000 while these incidents are investigated, even though, as of February, he still appears on the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office’s list of officers stripped of police powers. He did not respond to requests for comment sent by reporters to listed contact information.

Kulis says officers sometimes use involuntary hospitalizations to retaliate against individuals who question their actions and that he has represented people who filed complaints after being involuntarily committed. 

“It can be a traumatizing experience,” Kulis said. “You’re upset already. A police officer is not listening to you. Then the police officer is saying, ‘Well, you’re not right. We’re going to have to take you to the hospital.’”

The data problem

It’s hard to know how common encounters like these are. Despite longstanding concerns about the ways that Chicago police respond to people experiencing mental health crises, the department didn’t collect data on officer-initiated involuntary hospitalizations until recently. 

In 2017, responding to outrage over allegations of persistent racism and use of excessive, sometimes fatal, force by Chicago police—most notably the 2014 murder of seventeen-year-old Laquan McDonald—the U.S. Department of Justice released a scathing report. The investigation found that the Crisis Intervention Team (CIT) training program, which is supposed to teach officers techniques to de-escalate conflicts, failed to prevent the use of force during mental health calls. 

“CPD’s documentation of these incidents is often insufficient to determine whether the force was necessary, appropriate, or lawful,” the DOJ investigators wrote. “Consequently, all we know are the broad contours of terribly sad events—that officers used force against people in crisis who needed help.”

The department began using a standardized mental health form in a single police district in 2016, but officers were not required to complete it if arrest or use-of-force reports were also filled out, limiting CPD’s ability to evaluate its response to mental health incidents. That same year, a report from a city task force found that city agencies drastically undercounted the true number of mental health calls in Chicago. 

The consent decree entered into by the city and state attorney general’s office in 2019 required the police department to document all mental health calls and note whether a person was hospitalized involuntarily—and whether a CPD officer initiated it. 

While the data show a rise in involuntary commitments each year since 2017, some of that increase is due to improved record-keeping. In addition to the consent decree, a 2021 state law required Illinois police departments to report every time they were involved in a mental health crisis. The number of reported police-initiated involuntary hospitalizations jumped from 400 in 2020 to more than 1,000 in 2021. But this is still likely an undercount since the standardized mental health form was not implemented across all CPD districts until 2023.

The data also show a clear pattern of racial disparities in the involuntary hospitalizations initiated by Chicago police. Black people make up 30 percent of the city’s population, but account for 70 percent of involuntary hospitalizations. Black women make up 16 percent of the population and nearly a third of forced hospitalizations. In contrast, white people comprise 32 percent of the city’s population, but make up just 16 percent of forced hospitalizations, according to data provided by CPD.

“Longstanding stereotypes that position Black women as aggressive or difficult makes them disproportionately likely to be perceived as disruptive, dangerous in both clinical and policing contexts,” said Jensen. “Even when Black women are simply in distress or asking for help they’re more likely to be labeled as in need of forced intervention.”

The holes in the data and lack of meaningful oversight means some of the worst outcomes are hidden. Perhaps nowhere is that more apparent than in the case of Latoria Hill, a thirty-six-year-old Black woman who died after officers attempting to bring her to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation shot her repeatedly with a Taser. Her story has not been reported previously.

What Happened to Latoria?

On May 2, 2020, Chicago police responded to multiple 911 calls about a partially clothed woman with a broom attacking people and cars near Narragansett Street and North Avenue on the West Side. One caller reported that the woman was armed with a kitchen knife. One of the dispatchers labeled the call as a “mental health disturbance.” 

When officers arrived at the scene, they found Hill rummaging through clothes and shoes discarded on the ground outside her apartment building looking for her phone. Sergeant Ronni Kane yelled at Hill to put down the knife. Kane was the only CIT-trained officer on the scene, according to CIT training data and the incident report. 

In body-worn camera footage, Hill can be heard telling Kane she couldn’t find her phone. Kane promised to help Hill look for her phone and get her a cigarette if she puts the knife away. 

As she negotiated with Hill, taser in hand, Kane repeatedly ordered her colleagues at the scene to wait, step back and “calm it down.” Still, at least eight officers surrounded Hill, inching closer by the second with tasers and batons at the ready.

The tense interactions between the officers appeared to agitate Hill. 

“Listen babe, we can’t go away until you get rid of that knife. This ain’t gonna get any better, and I don’t want to tase you,” Kane said to Hill, according to body-worn camera footage.

“She’s calmed down a ton in the last few minutes,” she told her colleagues, stepping back from Hill.

Moments later, Hill retreated inside her apartment building and the front door locked behind her. Officer Gary Sanabria is seen on body-worn camera footage forcibly kicking the door open and chasing after Hill with his taser pointed at her as she slowly walked backwards up the stairwell. 

“Drop the goddamn knife or I’m gonna light you up!” Officer Gary Sanabria shouted. 

“Let her go up the stairs, Gary. If she falls, we’re done,” Kane warned. Others warned he was getting too close. 

Sanabria fired his taser, which missed Hill as she attempted to close the door to her apartment. Then, the officers forced themselves into the unit as Sanabria fired his taser from behind the partially opened door. Hill screamed and fell onto the floor of a mostly bare bedroom. Kane rounded the corner and fired her taser at Hill as she writhed on the floor. Four officers handcuffed her as others watched, according to body-worn camera footage. 

The officers can be heard on the video discussing whether she should be charged with aggravated assault of a police officer, a charge frequently filed by CPD officers to obscure police misconduct or justify excessive force, according to a 2018 investigation by the Chicago Reporter. But instead of arresting Hill, Kane decided she should be taken to a hospital for a mental health evaluation. 

After Hill was handcuffed, Sanabria crudely explained the incident to another officer. “I killed two cartridges on her,” he said. “She didn’t like the lightning.” Neither Kane nor Sanabria responded to requests for comment.

Hill was taken to West Suburban Hospital, where she was placed in restraints because she was being aggressive, combative and uncooperative with emergency department personnel, according to reports obtained by Invisible Institute and MindSite News. Around 3:30 a.m. the next day, Hill’s restraints were removed, but she was restrained again three hours later. Around 8 a.m., Hill went into cardiac arrest and was pronounced dead at 8:31 a.m. PCP was also found in her system. 

Hill’s mother brought a wrongful death lawsuit, alleging that Hill “was never a threat to any of the police officers or anyone else” and that police used aggressive and disproportionate tactics. She and other members of Hill’s family declined to comment.

The city initially asserted that officers were merely “providing assistance” to Hill and should be granted immunity. After that was rejected by the judge, city attorneys settled with Hill’s mother for $85,000. Despite this, the Civilian Office of Police Accountability administratively closed its case without coming to an official finding, as it did in Bass’s case. “Our review of evidence uncovered neither misconduct nor a violation of Department policy,” investigators wrote.

COPA did not provide a formal comment when contacted by reporters.

Hill’s death was not the only wrongful death suit Kane was involved in. In 2010, she was one of five officers named in the wrongful death of a thirty-nine-year-old Black man named John Coleman, Jr. He died in police custody after he was tased by police and Kane and her partner failed to provide immediate medical attention. The city settled with Coleman’s family for $1.3 million in September 2011. 

Former Superintendent Garry McCarthy recommended firing both officers but they were reprimanded instead. 

After Hill was transported to the hospital, Sanabria toured the apartment and picked up the taser prongs. On camera footage, he can be seen walking into a bedroom near the front door, where Hill was initially tased. 

He lifted up a blue comforter and picked up a phone.

Andrew Fan of Invisible Institute contributed data analysis to this story. Jaehee Kim contributed reporting to this story as a Humphrey Fellow with Invisible Institute through ASU’s Cronkite School of Journalism.

Invisible Institute is part of the Mental Health Parity Collaborative, a group of newsrooms that are covering stories on mental health care access and inequities in the U.S. The partners on this project include The Carter Center and newsrooms in select states across the country.

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Josh McGhee is an investigative reporter and the Chicago bureau chief for MindSite News. Dana Brozost-Kelleher, Isabelle Senechal, and Sam Stecklow are investigative journalists for Invisible Institute. Jenna Mayzouni, Allende Miglietta, and Stephana Ocneanu reported on this story as externs with Invisible Institute from Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism.

Sam Stecklow

Sam Stecklow is an editor at the Weekly. He also works as a journalist for the Invisible Institute. His reporting has won a Sidney Award from the Sidney Hillman Foundation, and been nominated for a Peter...

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