The Brief

As COVID-19 tore through California, Jennifer Hark Dietz had a decision to make. The state was making perhaps its biggest push ever to get people off the street, offering up billions of dollars for cities and organizations like hers to turn old motels into new homes.

It was risky. The Homekey program came with up-front cash and a promise to move fast and cut red tape. But it also meant taking on old buildings with little vetting, which had the potential to put a developer in a deep financial hole.

At first the gamble paid off. In just a few months, Hark Dietz’s nonprofit, People Assisting The Homeless, was housing people in the old 40-room Hollywood Orchid Suites in Los Angeles. She called it a “shining light” for what seemed possible with the radical new program.

But then came a pale pink Travelodge in the suburb of Gardena. The city of LA had already bought the motel for $9 million, and Hark Dietz said her team didn’t have a chance to vet or tour the site. They’d only seen online photos and basic inspection reports before they took it over in December 2020. A city consultant estimated that it would take about $50,000 to start moving people into the roadside motel.

“Of course,” she said, “we know now that’s not the case.”

More than five years and nearly $3 million later, the motel — which turned out to need all new windows, plumbing and electrical, among other issues — was still vacant earlier this year. There was plywood over some of the windows, and someone graffitied a ghost on one side.

The boom-or-bust results in Los Angeles underscore how little is known publicly about a generational project with a high price tag and even higher stakes. Some projects were huge successes. Others were total failures. Dozens remain stuck in limbo. CalMatters found there’s been little public accountability for any of it.

Launched by Gov. Gavin Newsom in the summer of 2020, Homekey awarded more than $3.8 billion to local governments to convert motels and other buildings into homeless housing, thrusting many local governments into a new role running multimillion-dollar real estate projects. Cities and counties could hire outside contractors to help or do the work themselves, skipping some of the usual building process for the sake of speed.

It was unlike anything the state had ever done, largely because it sprang from desperation. Homekey launched during peak COVID, five months before vaccines were available, and after cities had already moved thousands of unhoused people into motels through Project Roomkey, another Newsom program. But those rooms were temporary, and officials were scrambling to prevent a mass exodus back to the streets.

With Homekey, local officials across the state bought and gutted Motel 6s, Best Westerns and roadside inns. They got more creative as the program evolved: Tiny homes sprouted in Silicon Valley, and Santa Cruz retrofitted an old dentist’s office. In Southern California, housing took shape in a former Tri-Delt sorority house, an earthquake-stricken church and a hostel that once served as a refuge for Japanese Americans returning from World War II internment.

Live Oak Apartments in Ukiah on Feb. 26. Live Oak offers its residents access to common spaces, such as a community garden and meeting rooms for visitors.

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Manuel Orbegozo

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CalMatters

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“What we’re doing here today is multiples of what any state in American history has committed to address this crisis of homelessness,” Newsom said at a 2021 press conference announcing a major Homekey expansion.

The program came with little built-in oversight. Earlier this year, state lawmakers killed a bill to audit Homekey. No state agency has publicly analyzed the program in detail to find out what’s working and what’s not.

The challenge now: A new and more complex phase is already underway with up to $2 billion from the voter-approved Prop. 1 mental health bond. But no one has publicly accounted for how many of the program’s original projects stalled out and how many succeeded.

To find out what happened, CalMatters filed more than 100 public records requests with cities and counties that were awarded Homekey funds. We asked for key details on 250 projects announced through the end of 2024, covering all but a handful of projects for which less public data was available. Those state and local records — along with dozens of visits to Homekey sites, plus interviews with people who built and lived in them — create a first-of-its-kind window into how it all played out.

Among our findings:

• Homekey made producing housing simpler. But it came at a cost. Homekey provided billions of dollars in housing funding up front, allowing some developers to sidestep the usual webs of investors and lenders and finish much faster than normal. But fewer funders also means less oversight. With rushed vetting, some projects got bogged down in delays, blown budgets or worse. At least one Homekey developer was forced out of business by an unwieldy project. Another is facing fraud charges.

• When Homekey worked, those involved stress that it really worked. Nearly 13,500 people now live at Homekey sites, according to the state Housing Department. For small and rural communities, such as Glenn County, the program provided crucial cash for their first-ever homeless housing. Officials from Mendocino County to Ventura say they were able to stabilize people longer term by adding stronger ties to public services and extra investment in resources such as counseling.

• Those successes magnify the opportunities squandered. Projects involving about 3,000 homes — roughly 1 in 5 promised by the program — weren’t finished as of the end of last year. Another 2,000 units have people living in them on a temporary basis but haven’t been converted into permanent housing, the program’s main goal. In 10 instances involving 500 more units, the state publicized grants that later were canceled or that never materialized because local officials or developers backed out.

• A lack of transparency raises familiar questions about the program’s future. State officials stress that they have extended deadlines and improved vetting for the program’s latest bond-funded iteration, Homekey+. But they refused to publicly provide details about that vetting process. And as homeless services providers have long warned, there remains no guaranteed state funding to keep existing or planned Homekey projects going. 

Yes, many Homekey projects opened late or over budget. But, officials emphasize, they still opened.

Newsom said he considers the program a “phenomenal success.”

“We’re talking about hundreds and hundreds of projects all across the state of California that they’re trying to manage and organize and operate,” he said when CalMatters asked about it at a recent press conference. “And I imagine each one of them brings its own opportunities and own challenges as we move forward and implement at a scale we’ve never implemented in the state’s history.”

Taryn Sandulyak knows that better than most. The Bay Area developer thought Homekey might be her big break, but it ultimately put her out of business. She sees a fundamental mismatch at the heart of the program. It wanted high quality, high speed and low budgets.

“You can only have two of those,” Sandulyak said. “You really can’t ever have three. That’s the issue with Homekey, is they give you not quite enough money to do it, and they want you to do it really, really fast and really, really well.”

The chasm between Homekey successes and failures isn’t a simple, one-size-fits-all story. But it does provide an outline of what it will take to make good on California’s big effort to finally make a dent in its homelessness crisis.

‘Failing was not an option’

On the west side of Ventura, just as the surf town creeps up into the hills toward Ojai, sits what used to be one of the city’s worst nuisance properties: a nearly 100-year-old apartment building once known, in a nod to local drug slang, as the “Booyah Mansion.”

The city’s housing authority, Ventura Housing, cobbled together enough money in 2019 to buy the building. But it didn’t have enough cash to fix all 300-something code violations at the crime-ridden property — until Homekey came along.

“We had some scary stuff go on here,” said Karen Flock, Ventura Housing’s real estate development director. “This property failing was not an option.”

Now known as El Portal, the 29-unit apartment complex today serves as a lifeline for a mother with 9-year-old-twins, one severely autistic. It’s a refuge for a woman who lived for six years in a city-funded Tuff Shed. Another neighbor still keeps his shopping cart from the street in his apartment as a reminder of what he’s been through, and why he can never go back.

Cynthia Gomez, 60, at her home in El Portal apartments in Ventura on Feb. 26. Gomez, who was formerly homeless, now lives in a studio apartment.

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Julie Leopo-Bermudez

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for CalMatters

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Ventura and other cities and counties that were able to pull off Homekey projects relatively on time and on budget credit a variety of factors for their success. Some grantees provided services themselves rather than contracting them out, better integrating public resources. Others raised extra money for on-site social services or worked closely with first responders to head off concerns about crime and stabilize residents.

Jeffrey Lambert, CEO of Ventura Housing, said the crucial thing was realizing early that Homekey money alone isn’t nearly enough. Instead, the city combined it with other public and private funding, staffing and resources. Projects that failed or got stuck in limbo often fell apart after they ran out of money.

“Homekey works,” Lambert said, “because of all the stuff added on top of it.”

For housing researchers such as Ryan Finnigan, deputy director of research at UC Berkeley’s Terner Center for Housing Innovation, the real strength of Homekey was not the building minutiae. It was the attempt to challenge the state’s status quo of painstakingly slow housing development while people keep pouring onto the streets.

“If we’re not willing to try a new approach,” he said, “then we’re not going to learn as much about how we can be more creative, how we can work with more urgency than the current systems.”

As fraught and full of delays as the construction process can be, getting a project completed is often just the first hurdle for Homekey. Once a project opens its doors, it typically needs significant resources in addition to the state funding. Mendocino County credits much of its project’s success to extra services for residents, which aren’t paid for by the state grant, said Megan Van Sant, a senior program manager for the county who oversees the Homekey site.

At the former Best Western hotel now known as Live Oak Apartments, there’s a therapist on retainer for tenants, plus a dog trainer paid to work with problem pets. Both try to help residents resolve any issues that come up before they escalate into grounds for an eviction.

To provide those extras, the county runs the project itself, rather than contracting with an outside service provider as many Homekey projects do. Two county staffers work full-time inside the building, using their connections to do everything from enrolling residents in Medi-Cal to pairing them with mental health services.

All that is expensive.

“I think the state should continue to support these projects,” Van Sant said. “The state asked communities to do these projects, and they cost more to do well than what you can earn in rent.”

Resident Sherry Collins inside her room at Live Oak Apartments in Ukiah on Feb. 26. Photo by Manuel Orbegozo for CalMatters

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Manuel Orbegozo

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for CalMatters

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Sherry Collins, 66, moved into the project three years ago, at a time when she was terrified of what would come next. Her husband had died, her health was failing, she couldn’t work, and she couldn’t afford to keep living in her cabin in the tiny coastal city of Fort Bragg.

Now she feels like she’s home. Collins decorated the window of her room with little red and pink hearts and adopted a kitten with extra toes, whom she named Mr. Handsome. She continues to deal with health challenges after losing a leg to diabetes about a year ago. The building has only four units accessible for people with disabilities, making it a challenge to accommodate everyone, but one recently opened up for Collins, where she can more comfortably shower.

“They have been awesome to me,” Collins said. “They’re more like family.”

Never-ending projects

For Sandulyak, Homekey was too good to refuse.

Five years earlier she had co-founded Firm Foundation Community Housing, which helped Bay Area churches turn their parking lots and backyards into tiny homes for homeless residents.

Homekey was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to dramatically scale up that vision by using millions in state funds to house dozens of people in Vallejo. It would be the small nonprofit’s most ambitious project by far.

Sandulyak never suspected that by applying for Homekey, she had doomed her organization.

Firm Foundation was awarded $12 million in 2022 to build a 47-unit modular apartment building called the Broadway Project. Over the next four years, nearly everything that could go wrong did.

Some problems had nothing to do with Homekey. The general contractor went bankrupt, and the nonprofit tapped to operate the facility squabbled with the city, leaving the project in limbo for a year. The state wouldn’t let Firm Foundation pick a new partner to run the housing, which Sandulyak says further delayed the opening.

Other problems were directly related to Homekey. By design, the program forced cities to take a much more hands-on role with housing development than they were used to. Vallejo wasn’t prepared for that responsibility. It fumbled its attempt to get a key federal grant and failed to set up important safeguards that protect affordable housing projects from financial risks.

Soon, Sandulyak had $2 million in bills and no way to pay them. With construction three-quarters done, the project ran out of money. Firm Foundation was forced to stop work.

It became such a nightmare that the Vallejo City Council asked for an independent audit to find out what went wrong and why. The audit blamed both the city and Firm Foundation for allowing the project to run out of money before it was finished. Firm Foundation vastly underestimated the project’s cost, and the city bungled efforts to secure additional funds.

In some ways, the audit found, the very nature of Homekey helped set the project up for failure.

One big problem was the timeline. Homekey required projects to finish construction within one year of their award, and to move people in 90 days after that. To meet those deadlines, Firm Foundation created budgets before the architectural drawings were even done, contributing to serious cost underestimates, the audit found.

The audit also found a lack of oversight at the Broadway Project, which it said is typical of Homekey projects. Normally, a single affordable housing project uses funding from multiple sources, including the city, the county, the state, federal funds, tax credits, private banks and more. The more funders and investors, the more eyes watching and holding the developer accountable. With Homekey, the city applying for the grant typically takes on all those risks by itself, the audit found.

The official ribbon cutting at the grand opening of Broadway Village in Vallejo on March 5.

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Nathan Weyland

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for CalMatters

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On a recent Thursday morning, Sandulyak gathered with city officials and her construction partners in front of a crowd to celebrate what they, at times, had thought would be impossible: the Broadway Project was finally open. Behind them rose the terracotta-colored wall of the sleek, new, modular apartment building. A red ribbon waited in front of them.

On the count of three, Sandulyak helped Vallejo’s assistant city manager snip the ribbon. The crowd cheered.

The project ended up coming in two and a half years late and 70% over budget. Despite those setbacks, the audit found it still cost less per unit and was built more quickly than the region’s average affordable housing project.

At right, Firm Foundation Community Housing Executive Director Taryn Sandulyak at the grand opening of Broadway Village in Vallejo on March 5. Photo by Nathan Weyland for CalMatters But it cost Sandulyak everything. She laid off three of her four employees, and she plans to lay off the last one and dissolve her organization. The nonprofit is still on the hook for more than $1 million in unpaid bills related to the project.

Despite her pride in the finished building, Sandulyak wonders how much more housing her nonprofit could have built — if only she’d never applied for Homekey.

Still, 52 people now have somewhere to call home.

“I’m unshaken in my belief that that is worth it,” Sandulyak said.

One of those people is 62-year-old Terrence White, a former refinery worker who was forced into early retirement by an injury and can’t afford market-rate rent. Now, he pays $294 a month and finally has his own place.

“It feels wonderful,” he said.

The Homekey gold rush

During the frantic first two years of Homekey, when many experienced affordable housing developers were sitting out the untested new program, an LA company called Shangri-La Industries stepped in to help fill the void. It scored nearly $115 million in contracts to build 500 homes for homeless Californians in cities from Salinas to San Bernardino.

But a federal indictment and a separate civil lawsuit allege that millions in state funds instead went to fund a lavish lifestyle for the company’s chief financial officer.

Among the charges attributed in court records to Shangri-La’s former CFO, Cody Holmes: $46,000 in monthly rent for a Beverly Hills house with a pool. Designer gifts for a girlfriend, including a $127,000 diamond necklace and a $111,000 crocodile Birkin bag. A $5,000-a-month lease on a Ferrari Portofino. Another $53,000 for Coachella passes, and $44,000 for flights on private jets.

All this while many of the desperately needed motel rooms sat empty.

Homekey set a low bar for contractors to qualify: They had to have worked on at least two affordable housing projects that included at least one homeless tenant.

Shangri-La easily cleared that hurdle. But had any state or local officials done more digging, they might have seen warning signs.

Shangri-La’s construction business was sued twice for breach of contract in 2018 and 2019, court records show, after two firms alleged that it failed to pay them. The company was also a contractor on a troubled LA veteran housing project, where records first reported by KCRW show Shangri-La partners sold the property to themselves, increasing the project’s budget by $8 million.

With Homekey, federal prosecutors allege that Holmes “knowingly submitted fake bank records” to the state Housing Department to boost Shangri-La’s credentials — financial claims that state officials apparently failed to verify with the banks. Holmes has pleaded not guilty, and an attorney representing him declined to comment.

As the company took on the Homekey projects, property records show that entities connected to Shangri-La or its partners paid around $13 million for actress Milla Jovovich’s Beverly Hills mansion, adding to a portfolio that included a $7 million oceanfront home in Long Beach purchased two years earlier.

In a separate civil fraud case, state prosecutors allege in court records that Shangri-La went behind the state’s back and took out undisclosed loans on the Homekey buildings, giving up control of the sites and violating their contract with the state. That became a major problem when the company defaulted on the loans.

For several of the properties, no one had filed crucial paperwork to ensure that they remained affordable housing. After the buildings ended up in foreclosure, some were scooped up by companies with no commitment to homeless housing.

Homekey contracts tasked local officials with vetting projects and reviewing contractors’ organizational documents, budgets and other key details. But records show state officials also reviewed Shangri-La’s financials, and once they paid out the Homekey money, they failed to verify that paperwork was completed to restrict the buildings to affordable housing.

The state Housing Department and several local governments that hired Shangri-La for Homekey projects declined to comment, citing ongoing litigation.

Andy Meyers, the former CEO of Shangri-La, acknowledged in an interview that he had “a lack of control” over his company. He has sued Holmes for fraud. He also blamed the local and state officials.

“My CFO had a lot of wrongdoing,” he said. “But it was a confluence of events that caused each project to go bad.”

Meyers said officials’ failure to file the proper affordable housing restrictions, which were also required by his lender, triggered a financial disaster that led his company to default on some of the properties. On two projects that Shangri-La did open in San Bernardino and Salinas, he estimated that the company incurred around $11 million in unexpected costs.

“We have spent so much money following their guidelines and following their timetables,” he said, “and they never followed their guidelines or timetables.”

Monterey County Supervisor Chris Lopez rallied support for a Homekey project in his hometown of King City. He thought Shangri-La made sense for four projects in the county, since it had already opened one Homekey site in Salinas.

But it didn’t take long for constituents to start asking why rooms were sitting empty behind chain-link fences.

“The longer it went on without seeing any movement, the flag started to get raised,” Lopez said. “I was starting to hear less and less communication and more sort of finger pointing.”

Local officials like Lopez had to start from scratch, raising millions more dollars to revive the projects as encampments swelled. It took 10 different deals totaling $16 million to open the King City project in March, three years behind schedule.

The full trail of Shangri-La’s deceit stretches from the state’s agricultural heartland to the edge of the Southern California desert. A $27 million Thousand Oaks hotel project sits abandoned today, robbing a region of 77 homes while it had a decade-long housing waitlist. Another $16 million project scrapped in Salinas would have provided 58 homes. Officials still plan to salvage 200 homes in other parts of Monterey County. The only two Shangri-La projects that stayed open during the legal battle, two motels in Southern California, were full of people who were plunged into messy foreclosure disputes.

The Quality Inn & Suites building, a former Shangri-La project, stands vacant in Thousand Oaks on Feb. 26.

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Julie Leopo-Bermudez

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for CalMatters

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Carrie Harmon, San Bernardino County’s director of community development and housing, said in an email that “the county entered into this effort in good faith, relying on representations that later proved to be inaccurate.”

Even some of those whose Homekey projects went well say they’re not surprised that things went sideways. In Mendocino County, Van Sant said the state’s oversight was limited to quarterly progress reports. Once the money was spent, the state stopped asking for any information at all.

“They gave us a bunch of money, made us do some paperwork, and then they’re out of here,” Van Sant said.

For Colleen Robinson, public officials’ failure to see the red flags with Shangri-La was life-changing.

Robinson, now 62, survived years on the street after losing her job and fleeing a bad relationship. The All Star Lodge in downtown San Bernardino was her chance to start over. Shangri-La did manage to renovate and open that project in late 2022.

Two years later, the bank foreclosed. Because no one had put the affordable housing restriction on the property, the new owner told Robinson and other tenants that it was going to quadruple the rent. She said the new owner neglected the building; weeds and stray cats reclaimed the parking lot, police sirens blared, and neighbors died with little explanation.

“This would give hell a run for its money,” Robinson said.

Harmon said the county was still trying to buy the building and figure something out, but Robinson didn’t wait around to see how the saga ended. On a Thursday in February, she packed up and boarded a Greyhound bus for Iowa, where one of her children lives.

Homeless veterans still waiting

An unfinished motel conversion in the Encino neighborhood of Los Angeles on Jan. 27. The project is expected to finish more than a year after the original deadline, city records show.

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Lauren Hepler

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Some Homekey projects still haven’t opened.

Santa Cruz County has three badly delayed Homekey projects, one of which will be more than four years late when it is slated to finally be finished at the end of next year. For that project, the county obtained more than $6 million to convert rustic vacation cabins under a grove of redwood trees into housing for homeless veterans. The state initially set a completion deadline of 2023, but the project ran out of money before it crossed the finish line, forcing construction to stop.

There were many reasons why, but one stands out: underestimating the cost, said Robert Ratner, director of Santa Cruz County’s Housing for Health division.

The developers had never undertaken a project this large, and that inexperience contributed to the budgeting error, Ratner said. But so did the design of Homekey, which capped what the state was willing to pay per unit at about half what it takes to build affordable housing in some parts of California.

The idea was that projects would be cheaper because they were converting existing buildings, while also cutting out extra layers of bureaucracy that add time and expense. That led developers to low-ball budgets, which came back to bite them when the savings weren’t as great as anticipated, Ratner said.

Once the budgeting error was made, neither the state nor the county caught it, Ratner said. The county assumed that the state would scrutinize all Homekey applications and throw out any that didn’t seem viable, Ratner said. But it appears that in reality, the state was relying on the counties to do that vetting.

Santa Cruz County had little experience analyzing whether a construction project was adequately budgeted. Typically, the county relies on other funders, such as construction lenders and tax credit investors, to do that job. But those investors weren’t present here.

When asked whether he and his colleagues had done their due diligence to make sure the projects were realistic, Ratner was straightforward.

“I would say no,” Ratner said. “I can’t say yes with a straight face at this juncture.”

Other projects just never happened.

A $14 million Homekey award was supposed to help breathe new life into the Hotel Travelers, a rundown, century-old building in Oakland’s Chinatown, as housing for people returning from incarceration. But once the developer got a look at the building, that plan fell apart. An inspection revealed such severe issues with the building’s construction that the developer determined it would be “morally untenable” to proceed. Oakland returned the grant.

In total, CalMatters found at least 10 cases where a Homekey award was announced, only for the grantee to later withdraw their application, return or redirect the money, or have the state claw it back. Some instances had more public explanation than others.

City officials in Fresno voted down their own project. Long Beach was unable to come up with a suitable location for $2 million worth of brand-new tiny homes left sitting in storage. Projects in Marin and Mariposa counties evaporated when real estate deals fell through, and the state rescinded its grant for a project in Salinas after a nonprofit partner pulled out.

Newsom's legacy and a financial cliff

Despite the vastly different outcomes at Homekey projects around the state, there’s no plan for a comprehensive audit to see what worked and what didn’t — a decision that raises the question of whether the state has done enough to grapple with Homekey as it forges ahead with the new version of the program, Homekey+.

Earlier this year, lawmakers nixed a public accounting proposed by Assemblymember Leticia Castillo, a Republican from Corona.

“While the program has expanded housing options, critical questions remain about its long-term impact and cost-effectiveness,” a summary of Assembly Bill 505 said. “It is unclear how many Homekey-funded units remain occupied after one year, how many individuals successfully transition to stable, long-term housing, and whether Homekey’s cost per unit is competitive.”

The bill was never publicly debated. It died in January.

The state did do one audit of multiple homeless services programs in 2024. It didn’t get into Homekey delays or what actually happened to people living in the buildings, but it analyzed the costs of eight projects. Based on that small sample, the auditor concluded that Homekey was “likely” cost-effective, with an average cost of $144,000 per unit, compared to the hundreds of thousands of dollars more it can cost for new construction in California.

The challenge is that when Homekey plans fell short of ambitions at job sites around the state, the consequences were often murky. In extreme cases, where cities acknowledged that projects failed to materialize, the state has clawed back grants. But usually, the main penalty for blown deadlines or other missteps is that the state may hold it against a local government or developer the next time it applies for funding — a dynamic that provides no public transparency.

Gary Wish stands outside El Portal apartments in Ventura on Feb. 26, 2026. Photo by Julie Leopo-Bermudez for CalMatters What happens next will be left up to a new state housing agency set to be launched this summer, the California Housing and Homelessness Agency. That effort is expected to include a new development committee to “provide centralized, coordinated guidance to state housing policy and funding decisions.”

For now, the state’s Housing Department maintains that it “monitors each project closely” if issues arise or deadline extensions are granted. Even with widespread delays, the agency maintains that “Homekey has helped build more and faster.”

The state said it is learning as it gives out the new Homekey+ funding. After seeing so many projects miss the one-year deadline, the state doubled the timeline for new construction to two years. Homekey+ projects that serve veterans now can propose bigger budgets for new builds, potentially addressing the issue of under-budgeted projects running out of money.

Officials also said they’re scrutinizing applications more closely now, including looking carefully at whether applicants are budgeting enough funds for their proposed projects, said California Health and Human Services Secretary Kim Johnson.

“We are improving our own vetting process, if you will,” she said during a recent news conference, “to ensure these projects are successful in delivering.”

The state’s housing department maintains that Homekey accomplished a major feat: building thousands of units despite a global pandemic, labor shortages, supply chain issues and other challenges.

“It is tremendously rewarding to see so many vulnerable Californians housed so quickly, and to have voters expand the successful Homekey model to house and support veterans and others facing behavioral health challenges,” Assistant Deputy Director Cari Scott said in a statement.

As the state’s housing policies shift, there’s one big question left for people like Van Sant in Mendocino: Will there be enough money to keep Homekey projects running?

Most of the projects have a pay-as-you-go model, versus standard 10- or 15-year affordable housing financing — a calculation that leaves a financial cliff looming for thousands of Homekey homes.

“If [Homekey] is going to be a long-term, permanent, successful program,” Van Sant said, “I think the state’s going to have to find a way to find some ongoing funding for it.”

Data reporters Erica Yee and Kate Li contributed to this story.

This article was originally published on CalMatters and was republished under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license.

As online classes proliferate, community college professors have found a hack — repackaging similar courses for hundreds of students at a time and teaching more than a dozen classes in a single semester.

Professor Thien-Huong Ninh Villarreal has at least two tenured, full-time community college jobs, plus recurring part-time gigs over the past 12 months at UC Berkeley, Cal State Sacramento and seven other community colleges. This fall, she’s teaching 30 sociology, ethnic studies and business classes to about 1,100 students.

In 2024, with roughly the same courseload, she made nearly $800,000, according to public payroll records. CalMatters reached out to her three times for comment, but she never responded.

Community college professors are expected to evaluate student progress and provide direct support without the help of teaching assistants, though that’s nearly impossible at such a scale, said Sarah Thompson, president of the Faculty Association of California Community Colleges. “Obviously no one has enough time in a week to teach 30 classes and do a good job, so that’s very problematic.”

However Chris Ferguson, an executive vice chancellor at the office overseeing California’s community colleges, said having multiple teaching jobs is not, by itself, evidence of poor instruction. In an emailed statement to CalMatters, Ferguson, who leads finance and strategic initiatives for the office, said multiple jobs would be a problem if the “faculty member’s workload is preventing the required level of engagement, feedback, assessment, or student support.” In that case, he said the college district — not the statewide college system — should be accountable.

CalMatters analyzed public payroll records from the non-profit Transparent California and corroborated those records with college course data. The analysis found at least 70 adjuncts, or part-time professors, who were paid by five or more community college districts, California State University or University of California campuses in the same year, including many who taught more than 10 classes in a semester.

Some of these professors were among the highest paid employees across California’s 116 community colleges. Ninh Villarreal made more than every community college administrator in 2024, even more than Sonya Christian, the chancellor of the state’s community college system, according to CalMatters’ analysis.

Most of the 70-plus professors did not respond to multiple requests for comment. Others asked CalMatters not to publish the data, which is publicly available, for fear of how it might affect their employment.

These professors aren’t breaking any rules. In fact, there are no rules that prevent community college adjuncts from teaching at more than one district.

Andrew Vanden Heuvel, an adjunct astronomy professor, told CalMatters he teaches roughly 50 online classes and labs from the office above his garage in a small town on the shore of Lake Michigan.

Almost all of his lectures are pre-recorded, and students can listen at any time. It’s called asynchronous instruction. At the UC, Cal State and especially at the state’s community colleges, these kinds of online classes are popular and widespread, a major shift since the COVID-19 pandemic.

Vanden Heuvel said he has taught as many as 1,000 students a semester across the country, including in Santa Monica, Salinas, San Jose and Visalia, plus schools in New Mexico, Michigan, Washington and Florida. He said the classes use different iterations of the same, largely introductory content about stars, galaxies and the solar system. Students read information online, interact with online astronomical simulations, watch videos or submit labs.

“In its current form, I am not grading anything (by hand),” said Vanden Heuvel. All quizzes are multiple choice and computer-graded — a common feature among many online classes, not just Vanden Heuvel’s. Some students also submit written assignments, which he said he usually grades using an algorithm that only checks whether the work was submitted or not.

About 20% of his course load is in California, he said. “In California, I can get paid as much as eight times as much as I can in Florida.” In 2024, California schools paid him a total of about $320,000, according to the CalMatters analysis. Nationally, he made much more, he said. “Looking over my records, I can tell you that 2024 was the high water mark.” He said he made $758,485.12 that year.

Full-time professors cash in 

By law, adjunct faculty are generally limited to teaching three classes per semester at a single community college district, with each district setting its own rules. Most part-time jobs are precarious, with no healthcare, no guarantee of employment and all work assigned on a contract basis. Colleges can strip adjuncts of their classes — and their wages — with little notice.

For union and faculty leaders, who have long said adjuncts are underpaid and overworked, the workload of professors like Ninh Villarreal and Vanden Heuvel comes as a shock. “I don’t know how you can earn that much money, how you can have that many assignments. I mean that’s pretty wild,” said Jim Mahler, the president of the community college council for the California Federation of Teachers. He said he suspects some professors are simply recording their lectures and “just hitting play.”

To make more than $400,000, many of California’s highest earning adjuncts had full-time tenure or tenure-track positions too, the records show. For example:

• Bobby Seals, an ethnic studies professor, has a full-time position at Evergreen Valley College in San Jose. He also teaches 14 more courses across four other community college districts, plus San Jose State — a total of about 930 students this semester. 
• Faramarz Mortezaie is the chair of the computer science department at Mission College in Santa Clara. Part time, he also teaches 11 classes at other campuses, including San Jose State. 
• Nicholas Nardi, a full-time psychology professor at Santa Ana College, is teaching 11 more classes at six other schools, including Cal State Los Angeles.
• Timothy Durfield, a full-time business professor at Citrus College, teaches an additional 10 classes at four other community college districts. 
• Walter Meyer, a full-time art history professor at Santa Monica College, teaches 10 additional online classes to students in Los Angeles and Kern counties.

None of these professors responded to requests for comment.

Ninh Villarreal, the top earner, has often had at least two full-time jobs, according to college officials and public records. She’s been a tenured professor at Cosumnes River College in Sacramento since 2016. In 2023, she got a second full-time job at Reedley College near Fresno, though she returned to part-time status less than a year later. In 2025, she got tenure at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton, and the same year, official college documents show she was the inaugural tenure-track faculty in the ethnic studies department at West Valley College in Saratoga near San Jose. Cade Story-Yetto, a spokesperson for the district encompassing West Valley College, said Ninh Villarreal is no longer employed there and refused to answer other questions.

CalMatters reached out to nearly every one of the state’s 73 community college districts, seeking feedback on our methodology before publication. Transparent California, part of a nonpartisan think tank advocating for limited government, obtained payroll information directly from the college districts. CalMatters then used that data to compile a list of professors who taught at five or more community college districts, Cal State or UC campuses in 2024, which is the most recent data. The data was corroborated using course catalogs, faculty directories and college hiring documents.

While some of the professors taught a few in-person classes, usually at Cal State or UC campuses, CalMatters’ analysis found that many of those who taught at five or more college districts relied heavily on online, asynchronous instruction.

No one is tracking it 

Universities treat online courses the same as in-person classes: students get the same amount of credit, and teachers are generally paid the same amount. As online courses have become more common, the UC, Cal State and community college systems have spent millions in state funding to ensure they have the same rigor as in-person courses.

Community colleges evaluate the quality of all courses, but they have no way of knowing what a professor’s workload really is. California’s community college districts are independently governed, and no one tracks who teaches across districts or how many classes they teach.

The Cal State and UC systems, which are smaller and more centralized than the community colleges, track employment and limit the number of courses each professor can teach. If the instructor is also teaching at a community college, however, they may have no way of knowing.

Vanden Heuvel, the astronomy professor, said he believes his students are getting an excellent education. “I teach at a certain number of schools because that portfolio gives me the stability I need as an adjunct to survive and thrive,” he said, pointing to his three kids, his wife, who is an elementary school teacher, and the need to be present with his family instead of driving from campus to campus each day. “Now, did I push it further than some people think is morally conscionable? I don't think so.”

Researchers say it’s not clear whether online courses are worse, or better, than traditional in-person education. Students, especially working adults who predominate the community college system, praise online courses for their convenience, but there are known drawbacks. Asynchronous classes in particular have historically offered students less interaction with their professors, which research has found is detrimental to student success.

How to teach 50 classes in a semester

Vanden Heuvel posts much of his course material on YouTube, where his channels collectively have nearly 5 million views, spread out over more than 300 videos. In his videos, he’s charismatic and personable, taking students into his car, even posting videos while on vacation at Disney World. His location isn’t a secret, he said — he has always been open about where he lives, both with California’s colleges and his students.

In fact, the first lesson in one of his classes is a video in which he introduces himself and takes students to his favorite place, Lake Michigan, where he first developed a love of astronomy.

State and federal laws require professors to interact with their students, especially in asynchronous online courses. Interaction could include fostering engagement in the classroom or monitoring students’ academic performance, wrote Ferguson, the finance vice chancellor, in his emailed statement. “These requirements apply to every course, regardless of how many colleges or districts employ the instructor.” The federal government has strengthened its own rules for online classes over the past few years.

Vanden Heuvel said he gives out his personal cell phone to all students and gets as many as 30 emails a day from them, mostly asking to extend assignment deadlines. He said he answers every email.

It would be very easy for students to cheat using AI, he said, especially because quizzes are multiple choice and most written assignments are graded only on completion. “The logic is the equivalent of the Scantron (a multiple-choice grading machine) at the large lecture hall. It’s a defensible instructional practice to assess that way. It’s how lots of assessments are run, be that the GRE or LSAT. I don’t love it.”

The promise of online education is to reach students at scale and lower the cost-per-student of education, he said — and that’s exactly what he’s doing by teaching 50 online classes and labs to as many as 1,000 students across the country. In some schools, especially in rural areas, Vanden Heuvel is the only astronomy professor.

He said his large-scale teaching practices represent his “most successful” experiment, though he acknowledged that many faculty won’t look so favorably upon it.

‘I’m not a factory of education like that’ 

Part-time faculty, who are cheaper to employ, outnumber tenure-track professors at every one of California’s 73 community college districts, in some cases by more than 5-1. The same imbalance is evident at many Cal State campuses, though their adjuncts, known as lecturers, can work full time and receive benefits. The UC, with a focus on research, has faculty categories that don’t exist at the Cal State or community college system, making comparisons tricky.

It’s well-known that adjuncts teach at multiple districts, but unions often say that they do it out of necessity. Tina Leonard, who teaches American Sign Language, is a perfect example. In 2024, she made just over $84,000 teaching at five community college districts.

“I am Deaf,” she wrote in an email, “and it is very difficult and competitive for a Deaf educator to get a full-time tenure-track position in ASL.” She said she took additional teaching jobs in 2024 to cover the cost of her taxes. “Each college withholds as if it is your only job, so when you add them all together, you can end up owing.”

K. Frindell, the president of a federation of faculty unions, the California Community College Independents, said she wasn’t surprised to see many faculty teaching in multiple districts, even some who are earning hundreds of thousands of dollars. “A loophole has been created,” she said — one that allows districts to cut costs by hiring adjuncts and allows adjuncts to teach at multiple districts.

In fact, the total number of community college adjuncts in California is unknown because statewide tallies do not account for professors who teach at multiple districts, said Ferguson. The Cal State system has the same data problem.

Adjuncts are often hired for the academic year and then rehired each fall. Numerous legislative proposals have tried but failed to give adjuncts opportunities for additional pay, benefits or full-time employment. In 2022, legislators tried to increase benefits for community college adjuncts, sending $200 million to districts that would then reimburse part-time faculty for health insurance. In the 2024-25 academic year, nearly 7,000 adjuncts used the program, very few of whom were teaching at multiple districts. Many districts chose not to participate, and most of the money remains unspent.

Noah Thomas, a community college art professor, said he looked into the new healthcare benefits but found them lacking. “It’s such a convoluted system and the subsidies are kind of pretty low,” he said. “The coverage only applies to me and not to any of my dependents and it’s only for 10 months out of the year because my contract is only 10 months.”

Thomas made just over $100,000 in 2024 by commuting among five community college districts in Orange and Los Angeles counties, where he taught in-person studio arts classes. Sometimes, the drives are so long, and the days so jam-packed that he eats lunch in his car, he said. “Financially I’d love to teach as many classes as I could. $800,000 sounds amazing. But I’m not a factory of education like that. I really love teaching students one-on-one and showing them how to actually cut out a piece of cardboard and use a band saw.”

The moral dilemma 

Frindell, who represents the independent community college unions, said the solution is not to focus on the professors who teach multiple online classes and earn high six-figure salaries. She wants to see an end to the low pay, precarious employment, and restrictive laws that force adjuncts to teach at multiple districts in the first place.

CalMatters asked higher education leaders in the state Assembly and Senate about adjuncts who are teaching at multiple schools. Alhambra Democratic Assemblymember Mike Fong, San Diego Republican Assemblymember Carl DeMaio and Riverside Democratic Sen. Sabrina Cervantes did not respond.

Because of state and federal rules that require professors to engage with their students, Vanden Heuvel redesigned some of his courses, adding new types of assignments. At times, he said the rules seem like they were “invented to prevent people from doing what I’m doing,” though he added that they are often ineffective if so. “What it feels like in practice is an administrative checked box that is not really connected to meaningful student experience.”

Still, he said he has sought reassurance from other educators about the moral implications of teaching so many students in so many classes, even if legally he is within bounds. “What they say to me, whether they're just being nice or not, is this sense that adjunct faculty are systematically taken advantage of by higher education, and if you have built a system that allows you to thrive while still providing excellent education, then more power to you.”

At the end of each semester, Vanden Heuvel said he asks his students to evaluate the course and that they consistently say it’s far above average in quality and knowledge gained and about average in difficulty. “There's always the sense of like, ‘Is what I'm doing OK or not OK? Am I pushing it a little too far or not?’”

He self-published a 600-page book that collects student reflections, mostly about how their relationship with planets, stars and galaxies changed because of his class. He said the book sits in his office, right near his desk.

This article was originally published on CalMatters and was republished under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license.

Heading north up the coast from L.A. soon? Plan to stop in wine country’s Santa Maria Valley to try something different: the region’s own BBQ style.

Order a plate at restaurants like Shaw’s Famous Steakhouse in Santa Maria, or the Hitching Post in Casmalia, and it will arrive with red-oak grilled top sirloin or tri-tip, pinquito beans (a miniature cousin of the pink bean, grown only in the Santa Maria Valley), macaroni and cheese, a green salad, toasted French bread and salsa. And there's no barbecue sauce. It’s dry rub all the way.

It’s so specific to the region that “Santa Maria Barbecue” has been trademarked by the Santa Maria Valley Chamber of Commerce to stop nearby imitators.

The defining feature is the pit that's used. The grate lifts and lowers on a crank or pulley, so the cook controls heat by changing the distance from the red oak coals: closer to sear, higher to cook through. There’s no lid. Local pitmaster Nicholas Priedite calls it neither grilling nor smoking, but something in between.

How it became a style 

In the 1830s and ’40s, what's now California belonged to Mexico. The government granted settlers huge cattle ranches (ranchos) and gave away even more land when it broke up the missions in 1833.

Ranchers raised cattle mainly for hides and tallow, so beef was plentiful. According to Santa Maria Style Barbecue by R.H. Tesene, at roundups and fiestas, cooks dug pits and filled them with local red oak, which grows abundantly in the coastal climate and has a mellow smoke. Once the fire burned down to hot coals, the beef was strung on willow branches and hung to cook.

A crank-operated grill at the Santa Maria BBQ & Music Fest. Cooks raise and lower the grate over the coals, a method one pitmaster described as neither grilling nor smoking but something in between.

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Wylie Withers

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Courtesy Santa Maria BBQ & Music Fest

)

By the 1920s, locals had made the method their own: beef strung on skewers over red oak coals had become a common sight at community gatherings. In 1920, Ed Craig, a founder of the Santa Maria Club, a social club for local businessmen, built a large pit to serve similarly sized groups, according to Tesene. In 1931, the club began a monthly stag barbecue, serving plates for $1.25 plus tax.

Prime rib was originally the preferred beef, followed by thick top sirloin suited to skewers and rods. According to Lompoc butcher Bruce Nix, the style began shifting toward tri-tip in the late 1960s, when cooks moved to metal screens and a smaller, cheaper cut took off.

A new generation

Though the technique is more than 150 years old, a new generation of pitmasters is carrying the technique forward today. At the Santa Maria BBQ Festival in September, I tried plates from local pitmasters, each with their own spin. Angel Ibarra of Santa Maria Grill Masters leads a group of longtime friends who have competed in local barbecue contests for 20 years. He uses a family recipe — a dry rub of garlic, pepper, onion and salt — and lets the fire do the rest.

Tri-tip cooks on a raised grate above an oak fire at the Santa Maria BBQ & Music Fest.

(

Wylie Withers

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Courtesy Santa Maria BBQ & Music Fest

)

For Jesse Carlon of Oakie Smokie BBQ in Santa Maria, the key to tender meat is keeping the temperature consistent through the cook. He runs a microenterprise home kitchen operation, or MEHKO, where he serves thinly sliced tri-tip in a Philly cheesesteak-style sandwich.

Priedite runs Priedite Barbecue out of a truck in Los Alamos, where the menu is brisket, pork shoulder and ribs with pinquito beans on the side. For him, cooking Santa Maria-style keeps local tradition alive.

“I feel like I can help carry the culture a little bit,” Priedite said.

Federal officials on Thursday announced new funding to explore the medical potential of ibogaine, a controversial psychedelic drug championed by veterans, conservative lawmakers and podcasters aligned with President Donald Trump.

Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. said his department is awarding up to $4.9 million to prepare for the first U.S. studies of ibogaine for post-traumatic stress disorder, a hard-to-treat condition linked to higher suicide and substance abuse rates among veterans.

The money will not go directly to patient research, Kennedy said, but to lay the groundwork needed to manufacture, dose and design studies of the drug.

Ibogaine is made from a shrub native to West Africa. It can cause intense hallucinations, nausea, vomiting, tremors and sometimes deadly irregular heart rhythms. Ibogaine is currently illegal, in the same ultra-restrictive class as LSD, ecstasy and most other psychedelic drugs.

Veterans organizations and psychedelic advocates contend that ibogaine has great promise for intractable conditions such as PTSD, severe depression and opioid addiction. U.S. research on the drug has essentially been frozen for decades due to ibogaine’s restricted status.

Kennedy said the government will receive data and treatment guidance from Beond Inc., a Texas-based company that has treated more than 3,000 patients with ibogaine in Mexico, where the drug is not illegal.

“That is going to allow us to dramatically accelerate the clinical trial process,” Kennedy said. “We’re going to have, I think, a record drug approval process.”

Additional funding awards may explore ibogaine’s use for addiction, he said.

Veterans Affairs Secretary Doug Collins, who joined Kennedy for the announcement, said the collaborative effort would focus first on safety and “best-in-class research.”

“For veterans living with PTSD, we owe them both urgency and the best science we can produce,” Collins said.

Kennedy and Collins have previously voiced support for the potential of psychedelics, citing the experiences of veterans who have traveled abroad for therapy with ibogaine and other mind-altering substances.

Thursday’s announcement was previewed in April, when Trump signed an executive order directing federal agencies to speed up review and research of psychedelics that could help with mental health conditions.

Three applications for psychedelics are pending review at the Food and Drug Administration. They include the first potential medicines made from psilocybin, the active ingredient in magic mushrooms, and MDMA, also called ecstasy. Decisions on those drugs could come within weeks or months.

Because of its safety risks, ibogaine research has moved more slowly.

The little data currently available mostly comes from patients who have traveled to Mexico or other countries where ibogaine is not heavily regulated. Ibogaine clinics typically charge $10,000 to $20,000 for one course of treatment, which often involves monitoring of a patient’s heart readings while emergency medical workers are on standby.

Trump’s order on psychedelics came after podcaster Joe Rogan said he texted Trump about ibogaine, which he repeatedly has discussed on his show. According to Rogan, the president quickly responded: “Sounds great. Do you want FDA approval? Let’s do it.”

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A coalition of online safety and consumer advocacy groups on Thursday sued five of the world’s leading artificial intelligence companies to halt further development, alleging the tech giants can’t prevent their own creations from causing “catastrophic” harm.

The lawsuit in San Francisco Superior Court follows a midterm election that could bring a moment of reckoning for the fast-moving AI industry, as Democrats who won back control of Congress stress the need to regulate the technology.

The filing, first reported on by The Associated Press, asks a judge to stop Anthropic, Google, Meta, OpenAI and SpaceXSI from developing or deploying new AI models, pointing to documented examples of cyberattacks and other harmful actions by AI systems and the companies’ own alarming acknowledgments that their technology has the potential to someday destroy humanity.

“No other industry is allowed to treat its own development of unsafe products — much less ones that could kill us all — as inevitable,” reads the complaint from the Irreplaceable Education Fund, Public Citizen, Heat Initiative and the Alliance for Secure AI. “Plaintiffs bring this suit to stop Defendants from continuing their unlawful path to disaster.”

The AI industry has generated excitement and stock market gains, but also deep fears that the technology could go rogue and escape human control. Recent incidents of AI agents hacking government websites and companies — including when OpenAI’s ChatGPT hacked into another AI company on its own in July — have accelerated those concerns.

President Donald Trump, a proponent of rapid AI development to keep the U.S. ahead of foreign competitors like China, has so far encouraged the companies to police themselves on matters of safety, though he has expressed openness to more guardrails. Congress also has stopped short of regulating the technology, but that may change with its Democratic takeover.

Some CEOs of major AI companies, meanwhile, have voiced support for slowing development of the technology to give safety measures a chance to catch up. They also haven’t held back in recognizing the risks. Anthropic’s Dario Amodei, for example, last year said he thinks there’s a 1 in 4 chance AI’s future goes “really, really badly,” compared with a 3 in 4 chance it goes well. Elon Musk, the CEO of SpaceX, told Fox News in 2023 that AI could lead to “civilization destruction.”

The plaintiffs, all nonprofits, allege that the companies named in the lawsuit have violated a California unfair competition law by endangering public health and interfering with the use of property such as computer systems. They claim they’ve had to divert resources away from other planned work to address the acute harms threatened by each of the companies’ advancing AI models.

They also warn that the companies’ goals of creating AI systems that are broadly as smart as humans and can increasingly manage tasks and learn things autonomously could result in a permanent loss of control of the technology and heighten existential risks to humanity.

The companies named in Thursday’s lawsuit didn’t immediately respond to requests for comment.