The Brief

Orange County Supervisor Andrew Do, one of the county’s most powerful elected officials, has voted to fund millions of dollars to an organization led by his daughter without publicly disclosing his close family connection, an LAist investigation has found.

Do voted twice to award contracts that, according to county agenda records, included subcontracts to Warner Wellness Center, his daughter Rhiannon Do’s group. Warner Wellness is the DBA of the nonprofit Viet America Society. (A DBA is the name an organization uses to operate that’s different from its legal name.)

During public discussion of one of those votes, Do said he had two years of conversations with the top county health official leading up to the vote.

Both of Do’s votes to fund the subcontracts happened with no public mention that his daughter was working as Warner Wellness’ president.

Do, his daughter, and Do’s chief of staff Van Tran haven’t returned multiple phone and email requests for comment.

A group of community nonprofit leaders were so concerned about the handling of the subcontracts that they held a meeting about it with Connie Chung Joe, the leader of L.A.’s top Asian American civil rights group.

Joe, who is CEO of Asian Americans Advancing Justice Southern California, told LAist she followed up by contacting the FBI.

When asked about this, FBI spokesperson Laura Eimiller told LAist her agency doesn’t confirm or deny the existence of investigations.

Conflicts of interest have previously emerged during Do’s time as a supervisor. Last year, Do paid the largest conflict of interest fine in California since 2019, according to state records.

Part of the fine was for Do not disclosing his role in fundraising that ultimately paid for work done by the founder of Viet America Society.

A nonprofit 'not in good standing'  

Over a two-and-a-half-year span, Do was involved in directing $3.1 million to Warner Wellness, as well as an earlier $4.2 million to Viet America Society before it took on the Warner Wellness name as a DBA.

Viet America Society was incorporated in 2020 by Peter Pham, who previously worked on a high-profile statue project led by Do.

In budget records, Do took credit for Viet America Society’s county funding. And in a recent video touting Pham’s work, Do said he came up with the idea of expanding Viet America Society’s meal distribution.

“I approached Peter and said ‘Look, why don’t we blow this up, make it bigger and we can help more seniors,’ and that’s how we started working with him,” Do said in the video.

By the end of 2020, Viet America Society started receiving its first of several county contracts. By April 2022, it had received $4.2 million in contracts to prep and deliver hot meals to seniors, people with disabilities and others facing food insecurity in Do’s district.

Throughout those years, Viet America Society was not a legally registered nonprofit with the state — despite state law requiring registration within 30 days of receiving funds. Even after it registered in January 2023, the state warned the group in April that it was out of compliance. The AG’s office wrote that Viet America Society was “not in good standing and is prohibited from engaging in conduct for which registration is required, including soliciting or disbursing charitable funds.”

All along, county records show Viet America Society received funding approvals from the county anyway. It ultimately filed the required financial disclosures in June 2023.

County spokespeople have not answered whether the supervisors and county staff knew the county was approving millions in funding to a group the state had declared was unable to legally seek or spend funds .

“If they’re not registered and they’re operating, that’s illegal,” said Sean McMorris, the transparency, ethics and accountability program manager at California Common Cause.

Pham, the founder and president of Viet America Society, initially told LAist he would be available for an interview, but has not returned multiple follow-up calls to schedule it.

A family connection

O.C. Supervisors Vicente Sarmiento and Katrina Foley, who participated in a key vote on the center’s funding this May, told LAist they were not aware of Do’s family connection until LAist contacted them this month. Sarmiento said such family connections should be disclosed before votes.

The May vote approved an expansion of the county’s hotline contract with the local chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI OC) to add services in Spanish and Vietnamese.

That expansion included a $2.5 million subcontract for Warner Wellness — outlined in county agenda documents for the vote — to provide Vietnamese language services for the WarmLine, the county’s emotional support hotline for people struggling with mental health challenges.

When that item came up for a vote, Do discussed being involved in conversations to expand the WarmLine’s services.

“I want to thank Dr. Chau,” Do said. He was speaking of Clayton Chau, attending the meeting in his role as the county’s top public health official. Chau’s department recommended the item for supervisors’ approval.

“To see this coming, now, after you and I have talked about it for over two years,” Do said to Chau. Do then voted with the other supervisors to approve the item, without disclosing his family relationship to the subcontractor.

It was not the first time Warner Wellness received funding through a county subcontract Do voted to fund.

County supervisors previously approved funding for a $625,000 subcontract with Warner Wellness in November 2022. Do, who voted for it, made no mention of his family connection. The funding was part of a contract with Orange County Asian and Pacific Islander Community Alliance (OCAPICA), one of Orange County's best-known Asian American community organizations, to provide mental health outreach in local communities.

Offices marked for Warner Wellness and Viet America Society are located on the same floor of the same office building as Do’s private law office in Huntington Beach. Until LAist contacted her this month, his youngest daughter Rhiannon Do listed herself on LinkedIn as president of Warner Wellness since July 2021.

After LAist contacted Rhiannon Do for comment, her title was updated to vice president. A week later, the person who answered the phone at Warner Wellness told LAist that Rhiannon Do was still the organization’s leader. The center’s website says it’s “a nonprofit, outpatient mental health center” but does not name anyone involved in the organization, including its leadership.

Do’s daughter is a law student at U.C. Irvine. She graduated from high school four years ago and then earned a bachelor’s degree in economics from U.C. Davis in December 2021. While at U.C. Davis, she interned at the Steinberg Institute, which advocates for statewide mental health policy changes. Her LinkedIn resume lists another internship at a law firm and no other work experience.

Rhiannon Do in a YouTube video posted in August 2021 by the Steinberg Institute where she was an intern.

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How Warner Wellness became a subcontractor

NAMI OC President Steve Pitman oversees Warner Wellness’ $2.5 million WarmLine subcontract. In written responses to LAist’s questions, he described Warner Wellness as a natural partner choice that was suggested to them as “county-vetted.”

OCAPICA’s executive director, Mary Anne Foo, told LAist that Warner Wellness was not part of her organization’s proposal to the county. Instead, the center was later suggested to her group during negotiations with the county after OCAPICA won the main contract. OCAPICA added Warner Wellness as a subcontractor before supervisors voted to approve the contract.

Chau, who no longer works at the county, didn’t return phone calls and text messages for comment to his cell phone or messages left with his new boss. Orange County CEO Frank Kim also didn’t return phone calls and text messages.

OC’s ethics code

County staff have not answered whether the handling of the Warner Wellness subcontracts complied with Orange County’s ethics policies, which state:

The code of ethics also says that county officials cannot participate in any activities that “would tend to impair independence of judgment or action in the performance of official duties.”

The code itself doesn’t describe consequences for any violations of these provisions, and county staff haven’t answered questions about whether any consequences exist.

Orange County has a five-member ethics commission, appointed by the five county supervisors. It has jurisdiction over some ethics code provisions, but not the ones listed above.

Tracy Westen, a government ethics expert, said the votes by Do raise ethical questions about why he didn’t publicly disclose his close family connection and recuse himself. Those factors, he said, lead to questions that should now be answered: How was the group was chosen? How is it performing? Was it given preferential treatment?

“I think it’s always a mistake for a public official to vote on something that can affect him, her or their family,” said Westen, who previously ran the L.A.-based Center for Governmental Studies.

“It’s one thing to vote on things that affect his family if it’s disclosed openly, candidly,” Westen said. “But it’s another to vote on something that affects your family positively, without disclosing it.”

Spokespeople for the county Health Care Agency have yet to answer questions submitted nearly two weeks ago about whether Do had a role in the selections of his daughter’s group as a subcontractor, whether county ethics policies were followed, and how Warner Wellness has been performing.

Instead, a spokesperson for the agency responded that responsibility for overseeing Warner Wellness’ work under the subcontracts lies with the contractors, NAMI OC and the Orange County Asian and Pacific Islander Community Alliance (OCAPICA).

Is it legal to steer government contracts to your child? 

State law currently limits elected officials from approving contracts that benefit the official’s spouse — or child if they’re under 18 and can be claimed as a dependent.

But those conflict of interest rules do not apply when officials’ children are over 18.

Back in 2016, the Legislature had a lot of momentum to change that.

Then-Senator Tony Mendoza introduced a bill that year to expand the conflict definition to officials’ adult children, parents and siblings. Violations would result in “disqualification from ever holding any office in California in addition to prison time and/or a fine” of up to $1,000, he said in a news release at a time.

That ban would have applied only when officials were aware of a conflict.

It had major momentum — winning unanimous approval in the State Senate followed by unanimous yes votes by two Assembly committees. But it died before reaching a full Assembly vote, state records show.

The bill was inspired in part by a City of Industry audit that found more than $300 million in contracts with its former mayor’s family.

There’s a strong argument that conflict of interest laws should include officials’ adult children — as well as siblings and parents — said McMorris, the ethics advocate at Common Cause.

“I mean, you’re still blood relatives,” he said.

“The natural inclination of mothers and fathers is to want to assist their sons and daughters. So I’m not sure that exempting sons and daughters once they turn 18 years old necessarily passes the smell test when it comes to things like this.”

The NAMI OC subcontract

The NAMI OC subcontract with Do’s daughter’s group for $2.5 million — to provide Vietnamese language services for the WarmLine — was the larger of the two county-funded subcontracts with Warner Wellness.

NAMI OC is one of the best-known mental health organizations in Orange County.

Pitman, the NAMI chapter’s president, initially agreed to an interview through the group’s executive director but later provided written answers to questions from LAist instead.

Pitman wrote that it was the county that suggested expanding the WarmLine, and that county officials suggested Warner Wellness as a subcontractor for Vietnamese-language services.

Warner Wellness Center’s office in Huntington Beach on Nov. 8, 2023. It’s a few doors down from O.C. Supervisor Andrew Do’s private law office in the same building.

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“We were provided a short list of community-driven, county-vetted organizations to provide NAMI OC WarmLine sub-contract services,” Pitman wrote.

“Warner Wellness is a natural partner choice because we have bilingual volunteers who previously helped with Vietnamese community outreach efforts for the WarmLine now connected to Warner Wellness. Those volunteers are well versed in NAMI OC WarmLine functions.”

He did not directly answer whether Do’s daughter has been paid under the county-funded subcontract or specifically how her group has been performing over the six months since the county funding was approved.

“NAMI OC works closely with Warner Wellness and [Spanish-services provider] Abrazar to ensure quality interactions to best serve the community,” Pitman wrote.

“We review and process payments for services laid out in the sub-contract agreement. Subcontractors must provide appropriate documentation to support invoices .”

The OCAPICA subcontract

On Nov. 29 of last year, Do was among the five supervisors who voted for a contract with Orange County Asian and Pacific Islander Community Alliance (OCAPICA), which included a $625,000 subcontract to Warner Wellness Center for mental health outreach. Warner Wellness was named in the county agenda documents as receiving the subcontract funding, though Do did not publicly disclose his immediate family relationship to the group.

OCAPICA, a well-respected group run by Foo, oversees 16 subcontractors to perform outreach to Asian communities under the county contract.

Do’s daughter’s group was one of two groups to receive the largest subcontracts given, for $625,000. Most of the other 16 subcontractors received $100,000 or less, according to the county’s summary of the OCAPICA contract, which was attached to the agenda for the supervisors’ vote.

Foo declined to say who recommended Do’s daughter’s group during county negotiations, saying she doesn’t want to get that person in trouble.

“In any subcontracting case, we do really strong monitoring to make sure they’re successful,” she said, speaking generally.

“And if there’s any issues, we would definitely do corrective actions and make sure that everyone’s doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”

A pay-to-play fine

Last year, Do paid a $12,000 fine for violating the state’s “pay-to-play” laws on government contracts and for failing to disclose his role in nonprofit fundraising by required deadlines. That fine is the largest conflict of interest fine statewide since 2019, according to online records of the Fair Political Practices Commission, which enforces these laws.

The fine was based on two distinct issues.

One had to do with Do’s fundraising for the high-profile statue project at Mile Square Park in Fountain Valley. The project placed statues of President Ronald Reagan, Vietnamese General Trần Hưng Đạo and Spanish priest Miguel Hidalgo in 2015 and 2016.

Pham led construction work at the park for two of the statutes in 2015 and 2016, before founding Viet America Society in 2020 and creating Warner Wellness Center in 2021. His partner on the statue work was Le Dan Hua, who also later was a board officer at Viet America Society and Warner Wellness.

Do filed a required disclosure about his role requesting $40,000 in donations for the statues over two years late, after investigators contacted him, according to a report by state investigators.

During their probe, state investigators also determined that Do falsely told them — under penalty of perjury — that he never directly asked for donations into the nonprofit he was using to fund the statues.

“Do submitted false information to [FPPC] Enforcement under penalty of perjury — casting serious doubt on his credibility, such that any denials by him may be disbelieved, entirely,” the state enforcement agency wrote in a report last year.

State investigators found that the nonprofit that collected donations and paid for the statues — including Pham’s work — was being used as “a money holding company” controlled by Do and one of his top county aides.

Peter Pham was paid $20,800 for construction work at Do’s behest, according to a state investigation report. Pham was not accused of any wrongdoing.

The second type of violation cited in the fine was issued for votes he made as a county-appointed board member of the public health insurance plan CalOptima, to award lobbying contracts to two of his campaign donors.

“Do made, participated in making, and attempted to use his official position to influence governmental contracting decisions involving a participant who contributed to his campaign,” read the findings from the state Fair Political Practices Commission.

At the time, Do blamed agency staff for not notifying him about the potential conflicts of interest. But state investigators noted Do has extensive experience in law and government office.

Do is married to Cheri Pham, one of Orange County's highest ranking judges. Before being elected to the O.C. Board of Supervisors in a special election in 2015, Do served on the Garden Grove city council and worked as a prosecutor with the O.C. District Attorney’s office.

“In light of this background, it is fair to say that Do is a sophisticated public official who had ample reason to know and understand the requirements of the Act,” FPPC investigators wrote in their description of the fine.

As part of his $12,000 settlement, Do agreed that he violated the pay-to-play law and failed to file donation disclosures on time about his role in the statue fundraising.

He did not admit to making false statements, which were not part of the ultimate fine.

Mailings by Do prompted a change to state law

A few years before the $12,000 ethics fine, state law was changed in response to Do’s use of taxpayer money to send mailers from his supervisorial office during the 2016 re-election campaign.

Do sent out 1.2 million mailers to voters in his supervisorial district — many of which prominently showed his name and photo — shortly before Election Day. Do’s taxpayer-funded mass mailings helped prompt the state Legislature to ban county supervisors from sending out county-funded mailers featuring themselves within 60 days of elections where they’re on the ballot.

“There’s been some abuse by some elected officials who use public funds to mail what seems to be and look like political mailers,” Mendoza, the then-state senator who sponsored the bill, said when the new law was passed in 2017, citing Do in particular.

Response from O.C. supervisors

LAist called all five current county supervisors for this story, and spoke with the three who responded. Two said they weren’t aware of Do’s family connection to the subcontractor.

“This is the first I’m hearing about this,” said Supervisor Foley, who voted to fund both of the Warner Wellness subcontracts. She said she would be following up with her staff to look into it.

“That is news to me,” said Supervisor Sarmiento, who voted in favor of the WarmLine expansion that included the Warner Wellness subcontract after he joined the board this year. He said supervisors should disclose their family relationships with vendors, even if it’s not legally required.

O.C. Supervisor Don Wagner said he sees nothing wrong with what Do did, because there’s no legal requirement for officials to disclose or recuse themselves when their votes would financially benefit their adult children.

“I don’t find any fault with Supervisor Do’s conduct,” he told LAist. Wagner did not respond to questions from LAist about whether he knew about Do’s daughter’s involvement prior to his vote for the contracts.

Supervisor Doug Chaffee, who also voted for the contracts, didn’t return LAist’s requests for comment.

Do’s outside income

The outside of O.C. Supervisor Andrew Do’s law office in Huntington Beach, a few suites away from Warner Wellness Center and Viet America Society’s offices.

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Among the county supervisors, Do is an outlier in how much money he’s received from undisclosed sources for outside work, according to an LAist review of public disclosures for recent years.

As a supervisor, Do made $231,000 last year in pay and benefits, according to public records posted by Transparent California. As one of five supervisors in a county of 3.1 million residents, he helps to oversee billions in government programs.

Starting in 2020, state-mandated disclosures show, Do began receiving outside income through a new law office he created.

On the disclosures for 2021 and 2022, Do selected a box on the forms stating that he received between $100,000 and $1 million per year in income for "law services.”

State law requires local elected officials to disclose all outside income sources of $500 or more per year, which would include specific clients if they pay the official directly. But if the official creates a company — like a law firm — that they control and receive money through, disclosure is only required for clients who paid $10,000 or more.

Do did not disclose in his filings where any of the money paid to his law office came from.

That’s in contrast to other elected officials. For example: When Michelle Steel was a county supervisor, each year she disclosed the names of dozens of clients who paid her husband’s law firm more than $10,000.

Do is the only O.C. supervisor making more than $100,000 per year in outside income who did not make more detailed disclosures about who was paying their company, according to LAist’s review of disclosures.

What’s next 

Orange County supervisors are currently in the midst of updating the county’s rules around contracting, including what kinds of conflicts of interest to ban. They’re scheduled to vote on the new contract policy manual on Tuesday, Nov. 28, at their regular Board of Supervisors meeting.

Right now, the county’s conflict of interest rules adhere to the state law definition of “immediate family,” which restricts officials from being involved in steering taxpayer money to their own children who are under 18.

It doesn’t apply when they’re adults.

Do was one of the two county supervisors who oversaw the drafting of the contract policy updates, as an ad-hoc committee member.

The proposed changes to the manual keep the current definition of “immediate family” in place.

Last year, Do ran unsuccessfully for statewide office, seeking to become California’s treasurer who oversees $3 trillion in annual banking transactions and manages over the state’s $100-billion-plus investment pool.

He later opened a campaign fundraising committee for the next state treasurer election, in 2026.

Annnnnnd they're off — blockbusters chasing award contenders everywhere you look. Disney animation, a new Knives Out mystery, an afterlife romance, a bazonkers Brazilian thriller, and a tale of Shakespeare and the healing power of art. Good thing you caught up with Wicked: For Good last week, right?

Here's what's new in theaters for the holiday weekend. (And here's what came out last week, and the week before.)

Zootopia 2 

In theaters now 

Back in 2016, Zootopia grossed over a billion dollars worldwide — so it's no surprise we now have Zootopia 2. In the first movie, our heroes, Judy Hopps, a bunny voiced by Ginnifer Goodwin, and Nick Wilde, a fox voiced by Jason Bateman, became partners in the Zootopia Police Department, having worked together to catch a corrupt assistant mayor and put her away. Now, they're settling into their new jobs, trying to get used to the fact that she's a strict rule-follower, and he's a little more laid-back.

And there's a new problem: a snake has appeared in a reptile-free zone, and he brings to light a mystery from Zootopia's complicated past. New voices like Ke Huy Quan and Andy Samberg add something new to what has already been a winning formula for Disney. Judy and Nick get a little help from a friendly beaver with the voice of Fortune Feimster, and they naturally cross paths with lots of their old pals from the first movie. — Linda Holmes 

Eternity 

In theaters now 

Larry (Miles Teller) chokes on a pretzel, and the next thing he knows, he's on a train with just one destination: a version of purgatory known as the Junction. After that unfortunate event, however, he has two strokes of luck. The first, his assigned Afterlife Coordinator is Anna (Da'Vine Joy Randolph), an efficient, compassionate guide to help him figure out where he wants to spend eternity. The second? His wife of 60+ years, Joan (Elizabeth Olsen) joins him at the Junction shortly thereafter.

But there's a hitch in this story co-written by Pat Cunnane with director David Freyne: Joan's first husband, Luke (Callum Turner), who died in the Korean War, has been waiting there at the Junction for Joan ever since, determined to pick up where they left off in the hereafter. So Joan has a big choice to make: stick with Larry, or gamble on a forever with her first love. — Sarah Handel 

Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery

In limited theaters; on Netflix Dec. 12 

The following trailer contains an instance of vulgar language. 

Rian Johnson's deliriously topical Benoit Blanc threequel is as gothic as its upstate New York church setting. A young pugilist-turned-priest named Jud (Josh O'Connor) is sent there to assist the hate-filled but popular-with-his-flock Monsignor Jefferson (Josh Brolin). Variously sketchy parishioners Glenn Close, Kerry Washington, Jeremy Renner, Andrew Scott, and Thomas Haden Church remain loyal no matter how vile, crude, or destructive their Monsignor becomes. So Jud, being the only person in close proximity not in thrall to him, is immediately the lead suspect when Jefferson drops dead during a service. The filmmaker's jests this time are often jabs at religious hypocrisy and how blind faith binds followers to leaders who are entirely focused on themselves and the power they wield.

If there were any doubt about who exactly is being poked here, it's laid bare when Daryl McCormack, playing a craven conservative politician who's seeking favor with Jefferson, runs down a quick list of far-right talking points that have failed to land for him. There are twists enough to tangle a spider in its own web, jokes and sight gags aplenty, and Daniel Craig's Benoit Blanc is as sharply etched as ever, in what is, to my mind, the most rewarding episode in the series. — Bob Mondello

Hamnet

In limited theaters

A woman in scarlet curled up among forest tree roots awaits her hawk's return from hunting in the film's opening image. Agnes (Jessie Buckley) is thought by townsfolk to be the daughter of a witch, and she certainly bewitches young Will (Paul Mescal), the Latin tutor teaching her brothers. The year is 1580, the place, a town near Stratford-upon-Avon, and the two young lovers will soon have three lovely children: firstborn Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Based on Maggie O'Farrell's acclaimed 2020 novel based on the lives of William Shakespeare and his wife, better known as Anne Hathaway, Chloe Zhao's breath-catchingly beautiful film luxuriates in these joy-filled early scenes, painting the family and the natural world around them in sumptuous, earthy tones before bringing that world crashing down around them.

Will, who by this time is writing plays for a theater troupe, is in London when tragedy strikes at home. Buckley's Agnes faces the death of their 11-year-old son alone, and can't forgive Will for not being there. Her grief all-encompassing, she barely registers that he also grieves as he rushes back to London and the theater. The film, though, is more than a portrait of a family tragedy. In its final quarter-hour Zhao shows us that this story has always really been about the transcendent, healing power of art. That sounds almost simpleminded, and it takes some directorial sleight-of-hand and historical fudging to make it work. But work it surely does, in a knockout climax that reduced me, and much of the audience at various film festivals, to sobs. Agnes reaches for the son who is no more, Will brings forth a play that will never die, and if there's been a more staggering cinematic catharsis in recent years, I've not experienced it. — Bob Mondello 

The Secret Agent 

In limited theaters

Marcelo (Wagner Moura) is a dissident on the run in director Kleber Mendonça Filho's bizarro Brazilian thriller, which takes place during Carnival, and mixes (among many, many elements) hitmen, corrupt cops, a '70s movie palace showing Jaws to a shark-obsessed public, a supernatural "hairy leg" that hops around gay cruising spots, officials intent on undermining science and marginalizing women, and an underground resistance movement that operates safe houses and a fake document mill. The central storyline involves Marcelo trying to escape the long reach of a casually brutal regime that's branded him a troublemaker. He needs papers for himself and his young son, and is also trying to find information about his late mother, for reasons that will be revealed in a modern-day framing sequence (in which Moura appears in a second role).

If that all sounds complicated, rest assured it's just the start of a rousing, suspenseful, occasionally hilarious, and ultimately unnerving 160-minute tale of battling political oppression. Mendonça began his career as a journalist and film critic, and his stylistic choices suggest a fondness for the work of De Palma, Scorsese, Fellini, Antonioni, Hitchcock and Tarantino, among others. What he's concocted, though, is strikingly original and speaks to the current political moment. — Bob Mondello
Copyright 2025 NPR

This story is part of ICE vs. LA, a collaborative reporting project by LA Public Press, Caló News, Capital & Main, Capital B, LA Taco, and Q Voice.

Four months after nearly 5,000 federal troops descended onto Los Angeles, Marsha Mitchell, a Black organizer in South Central, explained what made it impossible for her not to act: her neighbors.

At the peak of the federal immigration raids this summer — when U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement was arresting an average of 540 people per week in the city — her neighbor, Erica, and her husband and friend were taken by federal agents while eating breakfast in their home.

All three were placed in a van and driven toward downtown Los Angeles.

But Erica knew she had to get back to her small children, recalled Mitchell, a lifelong South Central resident, from a conversation she had with her neighbor.

“As a mother, her whole thing was, I got to get to my babies,” Mitchell said.

When the agents opened the van doors in downtown L.A., Erica broke free — still tied up, still terrified — and ran. While Erica managed to escape, her husband was placed in the detention center, where he said conditions were unbearable. According to Mitchell, he self-deported rather than endure them, choosing to escape the system that had trapped him.

Erica was the family’s breadwinner through her tamale stand, but with her husband gone, she is too afraid to leave her home. The family has collapsed financially under the weight of a single raid, Mitchell said.

“Not only has she lost her business, but also her husband and the ability to give her family what they need to survive,” said Mitchell, an organizer with Community Coalition, the long-standing anti-violence and drug addiction group founded by now-Mayor Karen Bass in 1990.

In South L.A., where Los Angeles City Council Districts 8, 9, and 10 have transformed from predominantly Black to predominantly Latino, and where the highest percentages of undocumented residents in the city now live, Erica’s story is part of the new normal.

For some South Central residents, the raids have triggered economic and social catastrophes. During the first weeks of concentrated immigration enforcement, 465,000 fewer workers reported for work. One local business owner told the economic justice group Strategic Actions for a Just Economy that he’d lost 80% of his business in the first month of the ICE crackdown. Other shops across South Central and downtown lost business for weeks.

The raids are posing a new hurdle for Black and Latino families to pay rent in one of America’s most expensive cities. But they’ve also catalyzed Black neighbors to act.

“[Erica] is a member of our community, and she is afraid to come outside,” Mitchell said. “She is not alone, and that is why we’re helping with mutual aid.”

Immediately, that looked like bringing her family groceries and referring them to resources for free mental health care.

Community Coalition, known as CoCo, is training dozens of block captains to canvass their communities and coordinate food drop-offs, safety check-ins, and care referrals in real time. They’re organizing their neighbors around the threats facing everyone, regardless of their race or residency status.

The immediacy of this care network — 18 block captains now, with hopes to reach 28 — emerged after Erica’s abduction by ICE, according to Mitchell, who works for CoCo.

L.A. County’s Black residents — 20% of whom are immigrants or children of immigrants — are standing in solidarity with their Latino neighbors, saying they are part of a shared fight against over-policing and racialized violence. Nine out of 10 ICE arrests have been of Latinos.

“Seeing families torn apart is so reminiscent of the white supremacist playbook that we’ve seen historically in communities of color, and that starts with our Indigenous siblings to slavery and through these latest ICE raids,” Mitchell said.

Neighbors moved to action

Pamela Riley envisions her South Central neighborhood with all the resources it needs to thrive, but that starts at the block level, she said.

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On a quiet stretch of 92nd Street, Pamela Riley propped open her front gate around 8 a.m. For one Saturday in October, her front yard — one of the typical South Central flair caged in by a sagging iron gate — became the heartbeat of a block fighting back against abandonment.

Within minutes, her neighbors began to gather. Grandmothers sipped coffee, young mothers munched on donuts, and teenagers organized flyers printed in Spanish and English.

Just steps from the 110 freeway and the ghostly remains of shuttered shops and clinics, her community is forging new lines of solidarity amid chronic neglect and a deep need for connection. This is the new frontline in South Los Angeles, where a coalition of Black and Latino residents is launching a network of “Neighborhood Action Hubs” along the Vermont and Broadway corridors to keep mutual aid alive as official support shrinks.

The goal: to weave a grassroots shield against ICE crackdowns and social services cuts and offer a model for how neighbors, not institutions, can bridge fear and isolation.

“That blueprint of success is there. The road is paved, we just need to walk it together,” said Riley, a 64-year-old lifelong South Central resident.

Later that morning, as the sun tried to fight through the gloomy sky, a group of three of the women who showed up at Riley’s event — two Black, one Latina — passed the same mural-painted utility boxes and chain-link fences that mark so many South L.A. blocks. Old-school Chevys, some missing hubcaps, were parked next to pickups and battered minivans, while the sound of cumbia drifted from a doorway where a woman watered her agave under the music’s sway.

As they moved from house to house, the group stopped at gates and asked neighbors about the specific issues facing their blocks and individual households. At one, a longtime Latino immigrant, gray-haired and smiling, shared how she planned to vote in the now-passed November election.

Riley’s block has become a lot more quiet and less frequented since ICE raids began.

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Deeper onto the block, the canvassers encountered two undocumented migrants — one a young father, the other a middle-aged woman. The father spoke to tangible issues in the neighborhood: “People have started stealing car tires at night and cutting wires from light poles for quick money,” he said.

The mother spoke quietly about work drying up and more neighbors “laying low” as rumors of ICE sightings swept through the area. The Latina canvasser asked directly about food access and whether anyone still sold homemade snacks. The woman hesitated, then explained in Spanish that she stopped selling crepes out of fear.

The canvassers turned to the others and suggested a solution: organizing a block-wide food vendor party, so people could sell their products safely.

Walking farther, they found themselves cautiously welcomed by a Black city worker who had lived on the block for decades. She described losing sleep as the city’s racial demographics shifted and her worry about Black and Latino votes being split or erased.

At each stop, the canvassers handed out cards with voting information and explained how to register, where to find drop boxes, and how to access rapid response teams if ICE was spotted or the lights went out again.

“Solidarity is literally in L.A.’s DNA,” Mitchell said. “We know that when communities come together, we weather all kinds of storms — governmental, financial, whatever comes our way.”

L.A.’s long-history of racial coalitions

Neighborhood canvassers speak to a women. This specific Saturday, these two canvassers knocked on dozens of doors for over 2 hours.

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Riley said her memories are filled with better days: bustling shops, a hospital on 94th, neighbors who’d send their kids to college together. She has watched her neighborhood swing from prosperity to depression and now, uncertainty.

Today, Riley’s yard and days are devoted to strategizing — she and other block captains count names, rehearse response plans and dream of new “welcome to South Central L.A.” signs at every corner. During meetings, they talk about how, in other parts of the city, neighbors stand by each other in crisis; here, too, unity could mean survival. The terror of recent abductions — a beloved tamalera torn from her routine and dayworkers swiped off the streets — still haunts these blocks, sharpening every knock at the door.

“I grew up in a civil rights era of the ’60s, and I’m starting to realize this is the new era of civil rights,” Riley said, explaining that the attack on civil rights today has extended far beyond immigration raids. “It is requiring more from all of us.”

Having lived through what she considers broken promises following the devastation of the 1992 L.A. Riots, Riley said she understands that revival cannot rely on state intervention alone, and it bridges racial divides. Instead, she insists, “what’s going on in Washington DC is showing us we need to join together and support each other.”

It also reminds her of the power of community. During the 1992 protests against police brutality, Latinos constituted the largest portion of arrests despite making up a smaller percentage of the overall population at the time.

Dozens of volunteers began their Saturday at 9 a.m. to door knock.

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The roots of Black and Latino collaboration go back to the founding of L.A. itself, where 26 of the city’s 44 original settlers in 1781 were Black/Afro-Latino with Spanish surnames — establishing a tradition of mixed neighborhoods and joint political action. This foundation was later strengthened during the Great Migration and again throughout the 20th century, when Black and Latino residents forged working alliances in the face of shared exclusion from citywide power.

In recent decades, the demographic mix in South Central has shifted further. Where once the community was predominantly Black, Latino residents now form the majority. The change created new opportunities for solidarity, as well as challenges, especially after Latino L.A. City Council members were caught on tape using racist anti-Black language while discussing concerns about the political power of Black residents. The tapes reopened wounds over neighborhood displacement.

Today, the skepticism remains real for a lot of Black people in L.A. In June, a viral moment spread across the internet after Latino protesters hurled racial insults at a Black L.A. police officer.

“A significant number of Black folks don’t see this as their fight,” author and commentator Earl Ofari Hutchinson said after the protest in June. “They’ve seen anti-Blackness in Latino communities. They’ve felt left out when it came to our issues. That breeds skepticism.”

But “if anything, the debate over whether Blacks should link hands with Latino activists in the immigration battle seems age old,” Hutchinson wrote on his daily blog.

Hector Sanchez, CoCo’s Deputy Political Director, agreed.“It takes a lot of work. I’m not going to say it’s very easy … but it’s people that are willing to have those difficult conversations at times to ensure that we have each other’s back.”

Just a day after the city council tapes leaked, more than 400 people came together in Boyle Heights “to talk about the importance of multi-racial solidarity,” he said. Despite the tensions, neighbors continue fighting side by side for justice and belonging.

When canvassers could not get in contact with residents, they left behind these door hangers with a list of resources.

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In the years since, organizers have responded by promoting cross-cultural events, joint canvassing efforts, and language exchange programs. Language exchange workshops and “know your rights” sessions — alongside mutual aid deliveries — have become linchpins of the hub approach.

“We are not just helping Black folks, not just one population. It’s for all of us,” explained Sequarier McCoy, a 49-year-old lifelong L.A. resident.

“I grew up in a Black and Brown community,” she added. “I smelled Black-eyed peas, but I also smelled tortillas. I like corn on the cob and Esquites.”

McCoy is also acutely aware that the issues of migration, detention and deportation are far from just Latino issues. “It’s also for Dominican folks. It’s also for Belizean folks. It’s also for Caribbean folks,” she said. She said her partner, a Belizean migrant, is living in fear too.

Black undocumented migrants are deported at a rate four times more often than their numbers would suggest, according to an analysis of federal data by the Black Alliance for Just Immigration.

It is why this practical solidarity spans crises, organizers said. When SNAP benefits run dry, when an ICE van is spotted, or when a neighbor’s lights go out, the same phone trees and rapid response plans kick in.

“This work is an honor as a human being, not just as an activist,” McCoy said.

Botox has become increasingly popular with people in their 20s seeking to stave off wrinkles.

Clinics market what is known as "Baby Botox," lower dose treatments administered less frequently than those for midlife adults — perhaps only once or twice a year.

Patients share the process in online videos filmed from injectors' offices, asking for a touch up to blur away any hint of crows feet or 11 lines between the brows.

It may seem absurd that anyone so young would be worried about aging. But like putting on sunscreen, patients say their use of Botox is preventive.

Botox is a brand name for botulinum toxin type A, an injectable neurotoxin derived from the bacterium that causes botulism. Other brand names include Dysport, Xeomin and Jeuveau. When administered in small amounts, the treatments block the nerve signals to the muscle causing it to relax, thereby temporarily reducing the appearance of wrinkles.

Attorney Stephanie Moore started getting Dysport when she was 27 to slow the formation of wrinkles around her eyes, which she attributes to her expressive face.

She pays about $460 per visit, and says these thrice-yearly injections are one of her favorite ways to treat herself: "I feel a lot more confident."

With Baby Botox, is age just a number?

There aren't comprehensive stats on what age groups are getting Botox, but data from the American Society of Plastic Surgeons shows that between 2019 and 2022, the use of injectable neurotoxins grew by more than 70% across all age groups under 70, including Gen Z adults.

It is not approved for use in minors, so the youngest someone can get Botox is 18.

Demand for other types of aesthetic procedures and surgeries, including cheek implants and fillers, has also jumped since the COVID-19 pandemic.

This timing is no coincidence says sociologist Dana Berkowitz, author of the book Botox Nation: Changing The Face of America.

During the pandemic, people's lives migrated to virtual spaces. That included younger people who had this experience at a formative age. They attended high school or college on Zoom during the day, and then logged onto TikTok and Instagram for socialization in the evenings.

Berkowitz says by looking at curated images of others far more frequently, inevitably, people were comparing those faces to their own.

At the same time, Berkowitz says some celebrities, along with social media influencers, now openly earn income through endorsements of various cosmetic procedures, further normalizing it.

While the 20s seem young for Botox, Dr. Kristy Hamilton, a board-certified plastic surgeon in Houston, says young adults can start to show signs of aging — a lot of it comes down to genetics and sunscreen.

"Sometimes we see people in their mid-20s that have a lot of wrinkles, and that's just life," she says.

But what's wrong with having wrinkles?

Ageless beauty is seen as a "status symbol" in today's society, says Berkowitz. Young women she researched told her these treatments show they were able to invest in themselves at a very early age: "It was like they were part of this elite kind of social club."

As Berkowitz explores in her book, falling short of society's definition of feminine beauty can incur a professional tax. "Our ideal femininity is a youthful one," she says.

Research shows that people who are perceived as beautiful get better treatment, says David B. Sarwer, who studies the psychological aspects of appearance and cosmetic procedures at Temple University's College of Public Health.

Sarwer points to a robust body of literature on how attractiveness can positively influence one's academic performance, professional advancement and legal outcomes. One study even found that newborns who are seen as more attractive by hospital nursing staff get picked up more frequently.

"It may make some, dare I say, strategic sense for people to say, 'I want to find a way to improve the way that I look,'" he says.

Are there any risks to starting young?

Botox was first approved by the Food and Drug Administration for cosmetic use in 2002. Physicians interviewed for this story note that since then millions have gotten it safely.

Reports of dangerous side effects are extremely rare, and typically linked to counterfeit or mishandled Botox.

There are still some risks. For one, it can stop working because your body forms a resistance to it.

This can be frustrating for patients, says Dr. Paul Durand, a Miami-based board-certified plastic surgeon. He hasn't seen any research explaining why this happens, but theorizes that younger people might be at higher risk because of their more robust immune systems.

Another concern is that too much Botox at too high a dose over time can cause excessive atrophy, or shrinking of the muscles. Since we lose volume in our faces as we age anyway, a person's face can start to look hollow instead of youthful.

Durand says well-trained clinicians can avoid that result by not overdoing it, i.e. not injecting too deep or using too much of the drug. But assessing a clinician's skill level may be difficult for patients.

Any medical doctor, regardless of specialty, can legally administer cosmetic injections without any special training or certification. That includes dentists.

Durand and Hamilton both recommend going to a plastic surgeon or dermatologist's office. Though Berkowitz says there are skilled injectors outside these specialties. She recommends that a Botox-curious patient ask friends or family for a referral.

Most people who get cosmetic procedures say they're happy with the outcome. Sarwer says the patients who are most satisfied are seeking to address discontent with a specific feature — like Moore's desire to soften the lines around her eyes.

But the evidence on how these procedures improve self esteem and quality of life are inconclusive, Sarwer says.

When cosmetic patients chase an unattainable ideal of beauty due to a mental health condition like body dysmorphic disorder or severe depression, Sarwer says Botox and other procedures don't improve their symptoms.

He explains these patients are, "better treated by a mental health professional than they would be treated by a plastic surgeon."

A life-long habit ... and expense

Durand turns away patients who want so much Botox that it would essentially freeze their face, blocking their ability to form expressions. "That looks terrible," he says.

But in his experience, a determined enough person will eventually find a clinician to say "yes," given that administering Botox can be a lucrative revenue stream with relatively few overhead costs.

Not only do clinician training and skill levels vary, so do prices. Discount treatments are unlikely to yield desired results, as Berkowitz warns. Amateur Botox can result in an obviously treated face.

And there's another problem: Once patients start with Botox or a similar injectable, they're unlikely to stop, says Berkowitz: "You get people in their 20s, you have a lifelong consumer."

Berkowitz herself is one of those lifelong consumers: She started getting Botox at 32 and now at 47, needs higher doses, paying about $800 per appointment.

For someone who starts young, that money — which could add up to tens of thousands of dollars in your 20s and 30s — could be spent paying off student loans, investing for their future, or traveling the world.

If you stop getting the injections, the effects wear off and wrinkles reappear.

In this way, Botox is addictive, argues Berkowitz, who admits that getting it feels in conflict with her feminist ethics, which aim to decenter appearance.

But Hamilton, the Houston plastic surgeon, says for many of her young patients, Botox is simply part of their overall investment in their health and appearance.

"Gen Z have this very different view on these things," she says. "This is part of their self-care. It's part of their wellness."

Stephanie Moore in Pittsburgh, says shaping her appearance with Botox makes her happy. She notes that her husband has tattoos, which she thinks are unnecessary and expensive.

"But that's his body and his choice," she says. "And this is my body and my choice."
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