The Brief

A $1,044 outing at a glitzy Hollywood nightclub. A $1,316 meal at a Los Angeles steak and seafood restaurant. A $4,500 experience to see the L.A. Dodgers. Isaac Galvan paid for them all — with campaign cash, a state probe found.

In his nine years on the Compton City Council, Galvan frequently spent campaign donations for personal purposes, kept shoddy financial records and repeatedly failed to disclose donors and expenditures accurately and on time, if at all, the California Fair Political Practices Commission concluded in its investigation.

But the probe lasted six years — so long that voters reelected Galvan twice and he left office before those violations were made public in July 2022. During the investigation, he continued to miss filing deadlines, got indicted for an alleged bribery scheme and was tossed out of office by a judge in May 2022 for election fraud.

“What took them so long?” asked lifelong Compton resident Gilda Blueford, who only learned of Galvan’s campaign finance violations from CalMatters. “If we could have known what was going on … perhaps he would not have been re-elected.”

Historically plagued by what some staff called an “enormous” backlog, California’s campaign watchdog has sometimes taken years to resolve cases — exposing violations or exonerating politicians only after they left office or won an election, a CalMatters analysis has found. While the agency has worked to expedite enforcement, advocates, officials and past and current commissioners say delayed actions can diminish public trust in the state’s ability to prosecute corruption effectively.

“If the FPPC doesn’t really clamp down on those obvious abuses quickly, then it’s a toothless watchdog,” said state Sen. Steve Glazer, an Orinda Democrat who has championed laws to tighten campaign ethics regulations.

The lag in enforcement could leave some voters in the dark in upcoming elections. As of last week:

• On the November ballot, 20 of the 305 candidates for the state Legislature, U.S. House and U.S. Senate have an open case against them, commission data shows. 
• Two of the state’s eight constitutional officers are now under investigation — Gov. Gavin Newsom for late filings and Insurance Commissioner Ricardo Lara for allegations of “laundered campaign contributions” — and both won re-election as their cases were pending.
• Seven of the eight top constitutional officers — all but Lt. Gov. Eleni Kounalakis — have had past violations, ranging from improper disclosures to illegal campaign contributions, according to commission enforcement records. 

The commission, created by California voters through a 1974 ballot measure following the Watergate scandal, has policed campaign and ethics violations statewide and in local races for 50 years. The backlog was an open secret among staffers and commissioners, with some senior counsels arguing in 2022 the problem had existed for “at least 20 years.”

Over the past decade, the agency has seen its caseload wax and wane, peaking in April 2020 at 1,874 unresolved cases, staff reports show. Among cases resolved between 2017 and 2023, 15% took more than two years to close, with the longest lasting almost seven years, according to a CalMatters analysis of data obtained through a public records request.

The agency has added staff, expanded programs to educate political candidates and streamlined enforcement of minor cases while freeing up resources for more serious violations, said commission Chairperson Adam E. Silver. In 2022, it adopted a policy directive to cap the carryover caseload at 625 each year and mandated a 75% reduction in cases opened before 2023, causing the backlog to plunge, he said.

“So long as that continues, then I would say the problem of cases building up and having a ‘backlog’ that grows and grows and grows, that’s resolved,” Silver said in an interview.

But some were concerned the agency may have become more lenient as it closed cases more quickly. Last year, the commission issued the lowest dollar amount of penalties and the highest percentage of warning letters — a method reserved for low-level offenses with minimal public harm — in the past decade, according to commission reports. Four in five cases where violations were found resulted in a letter.

James Lindsay, enforcement chief of the commission, said in multiple public meetings that the increased use of warning letters was partly because the agency prioritized closing minor cases and acknowledged in June that it would become more difficult to find “easy closures.” But he assured the commission in January that the letters were never issued “in scenarios that were not justified in the past.”

Some ethics advocates, however, warned against the practice.

“Because of a policy to be caught up on mandates, you don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater,” said Sean McMorris, transparency, ethics, and accountability manager at the California Common Cause. “The answer is not less enforcement or diminished fines. The answer is more person power to enforce the law adequately.”

‘We don’t believe in the system’

Galvan — the first Latino to ever serve on the Compton City Council — was a symbol of hope for diverse representation, Blueford said.

But Galvan’s career was littered with violations, according to state and court records. He failed to file any disclosures before being elected in 2013, drawing a $1,000 fine from the commission that November. That did not stop him: He continued to file paperwork late, until in March 2017, he stopped filing altogether, according to the commission’s investigation, details of which have not been previously reported.

A month later, he was re-elected.

He also spent more than $55,000 of the money he raised between 2013 and 2017 for personal use, the investigation said. In 2017, he even posted about one of those expenses at a Beverly Hills winery on social media, according to bank records included in the probe.

During the investigation, Galvan was hard to find, at times promising to provide records he never delivered, and efforts to directly serve him the subpoena for those records failed, commission documents show. Once, he was celebrating the premiere of the movie “Daddy’s Home 2” on the day the subpoena server tried to reach him, according to his social media post. On another occasion, Galvan entered the City Hall through a “private entrance,” documents show.

The commission fined Galvan $240,000 in 2022. But the agency had not received a payment as of Oct. 9, commission spokesperson Jay Wierenga confirmed.

The agency opened the case in February 2016 and assigned it that September, adding more staff and devising a plan to investigate in June 2017, according to Wierenga and the agency’s own case chronology obtained via a public records request.

The commission’s leaders acknowledged that Galvan’s case “took too long to resolve and that staff should have been assigned sooner,” Wierenga said in an email. But he said that Galvan’s extensive violations and lack of responsiveness was why the case took longer than normal, and asserted that recent reforms will “prevent significant delays.”

Compton City Council member Isaac Galvan during a ribbon-cutting ceremony at Gonzales Park in Compton, on April 15, 2021.

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Image of Sport/Sipa USA via Reuters

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Compton City Council member Andre Spicer, who replaced Galvan in 2022, called the long duration of the case “a disservice.”

“I think that our lack of engagement is because we don’t believe in the system,” Spicer said. “If you have issues like this that take 10 years, eight years to sort out and damage is done, it reinforces the reasons why people don’t engage.”

Galvan and his then-bookkeeper, Gary Crummitt, did not respond to multiple inquiries over two weeks for comment. When reached by CalMatters last month, Galvan’s attorney during the investigation, Anthony Willoughby, said in an email: “There are a lot of moving parts to the matter you are seeking comment on.”

‘Notoriously slow’

Galvan’s case is among many where, by the time they were resolved, the officials in question had won an election or left office.

In the city of Campbell in 2017, council members paid for ads with taxpayer dollars to influence election outcomes on three ballot measures about marijuana regulations, the commission found. But the findings were only made public six years later, after most of those officials had left office.

Former state Assemblymember Bill Brough spent campaign cash on family cell phone plans, hotel stays and a trip to a Boston Red Sox game, according to the commission, which didn’t conclude his case until last year, three years after he left office. Even he complained: “I just wanted to go on with my life,” the Los Angeles Times reported.

And a three-year investigation into state Assemblymember Diane Papan wrapped in May, resulting in a warning letter for improper reporting of contributions when she ran for San Mateo City Council in 2020, according to records obtained by CalMatters. Papan’s campaign provided records to the agency in 2021, but the staff waited three years before reaching back out — so long that Papan’s attorney, former FPPC enforcement chief Gary Winuk, questioned the lack of action in an email to the staff, and one witness the agency interviewed said he no longer remembered details of the contributions in question, records show.

Delays could create a sense that “there’s justice denied,” said commission vice chairperson Catharine Baker. “If you act too slowly, if there isn’t a resolution, potential bad actors aren’t brought to any real significant justice, and the public can’t have faith that the rules are being enforced — that there is someone watching the henhouse.”

Some open cases have also lasted years. Newsom, for instance, has been under a previously unreported investigation since 2021 for late disclosure of behested payments — donations to a person, nonprofit or a state agency at the behest of the public official that ethics experts say can be another avenue for special interests to curry favor. Another probe for potential campaign reporting violations has also been open since 2021, commission records show.

Officials are required by state law to disclose behested payments that total $5,000 or more from a single donor in a year, and upon meeting that dollar threshold, the official must report the payments within 30 days.

Between 2019 and 2021, Newsom’s office failed to file 17 behested payments totaling more than $14 million on time, including one filed more than a year after the due date, according to records obtained by CalMatters via a public records request.

In emails to the commission, Newsom’s staff blamed the delays on donors notifying the governor’s office of the payments after filing deadlines. They also said the governor takes his “reporting obligations very seriously” and submitted the documents within days of discovering the payments.

Many of those behested payments were made during the pandemic, “when the Governor’s office was focused on the quick mobilization of resources,” Newsom spokesperson Izzy Gardon said in a statement last week. “Our office remains committed to transparency and complying with FPPC requirements.”

Lara — who accepted money in 2019 from donors with ties to insurers his agency oversaw — has been under investigation for two years for allegations of laundering campaign donations, records show. Between 2021 and 2022, insurance companies funneled $122,500 through the leadership fund of the California Legislative LGBTQ caucus — where Lara served as vice chairperson and remains an ex-officio member — to support Lara, according to a complaint filed by Carmen Balber, executive director of the advocacy group Consumer Watchdog, which has also faced criticism for not disclosing its donors.

The last time she heard from the commission, Balber said, was when it opened the investigation in May 2022.

Lara told CalMatters last month he was not in touch with the agency and referred questions to his campaign attorney. The attorney, along with other groups named in the investigation, did not respond to a CalMatters inquiry.

Former commission chairperson Ann Ravel said while some cases are complicated and time-consuming, late filings of behested payments and campaign finance forms should be easy cases to close. “We know there are deadlines,” Ravel said. “If they cannot monitor that, what are they monitoring?”

Even with complex cases, Ravel argued, swift resolution is possible. Right before the November 2012 election, the agency under her leadership forced Koch Brothers-associated groups to disclose $11 million in illegal spending on a pair of propositions through an emergency ruling from the California Supreme Court. The groups were fined $1 million a year later.

“That transparency was so important to the public, to the press, in order for there to be fairness in the system and also for people to have trust in government,” she said.

But speed is not all, Silver argued. “Just because you are spending a lot of time on one case doesn’t make it a waste of time,” he said. “It could have the effect of limiting complaints and violations in the future.”

And cases must be investigated fully for due process, even if no violations are ultimately found, said commission executive director Galena West, who led the enforcement division for five years.

“Isn’t exonerating someone also valuable for the public to know?”

The agency’s goals are to ensure public officials “act in a fair and unbiased manner,” promote government transparency and to build public trust in the political system, according to its website. State law and commission regulations do not explicitly require staff to resolve cases before elections.

But frustration lingers among campaign finance attorneys, those who filed complaints and even politicians under investigation.

“The FPPC is so notoriously slow that it’s not worth bugging them,” Balber said. “If campaign violations are not identified and prosecuted in a timely manner, then after-the-fact penalties have no impact on the elected officials who are being investigated.”

Delays create loopholes for officials willing to chock up the penalties as the cost of winning an election, said McMorris of California Common Cause, who likened the state campaign finance laws to “a tube of toothpaste under pressure.”

“There’s multiple holes in it. You plug one, those bad actors immediately go find the other hole that they can exploit,” he said. “It diminishes public trust in the democratic process and in our representatives.”

And for public officials who “inadvertently” made a mistake or who are innocent, the lengthy probe is “like a sword hanging over your head” even after leaving office, said Glazer, the state legislator.

State Treasurer Fiona Ma — who was fined $11,500 earlier this year for failing to disclose more than $860,000 in payments in her 2018 campaign — said the yearslong investigation meant extra costs to retain her treasurer and attorney.

“I’m just going to have to pay a fine at some point, so just send me the bill,” Ma, a 2026 candidate for lieutenant governor, told CalMatters. “But you know what? This is … the cost of doing business in elected office. It just is. Everybody gets fined, just how much.”

What caused the backlog?

Anecdotes of backlogs and delays reached Baker before she was appointed to the commission in 2021, she said. And early in her tenure, she quickly noticed how old cases were by the time staff presented them for commission decisions.

“I said ‘Look, there’s a problem. It’s severe. And we must do something,’” Baker said in an interview with CalMatters, joined by Wierenga, the spokesperson. “If we don’t, our tenures on this commission … will be partly a failure.”

The influx of complaints and referrals from state and local agencies contributed to the backlog, Baker said. Over the past decade, the number of complaints and referrals has generally crept up and surged in election years, peaking in 2022 with 3,103, compared to a low of 1,205 in 2015, according to the CalMatters analysis.

Lawmakers also assigned the agency more duties over the years, Baker and Wierenga noted. Wierenga said the agency’s caseload jumped in 2015 when the California Secretary of State began referring campaigns that failed to file a $50 annual fee. The commission received 2,460 referrals on May 1, 2015 — almost five times the number of referrals from all other agencies combined that year, he wrote in an email. In 2021, the enforcement of the law was transferred back to the Secretary of State.

Laws increasing disclosure of donors in campaign ads — including a 2018 law that regulated the text, color and font size — added more work for the commission, Wierenga said.

Additionally, staff responsible for parsing out complaints and referrals worth investigating sometimes opened cases when they shouldn’t have, especially under the pressure of high caseloads, Lindsay told the commission in January. Inexperienced staff also lacked understanding of the law, leaving the manager scrambling to train them, according to a 2022 memorandum by unit manager Tara Stock.

“If you’re overwhelmed, you’re not sure what the right answer is, the thought process is: ‘There’s no harm in moving that case forward,’” Lindsay said.

Burdensome “red tape” — including layers of reviews and approvals required to escalate a case — and a digital recordkeeping system that’s hard to navigate compounded the problem, staff said. In a 2022 letter, staff described the system as “slow, cumbersome, and sometimes, downright tedious.”

Some lawmakers and ethics advocates — while bemoaning slow enforcement — argue the agency is chronically understaffed and underfunded. The department’s budget and its number of employees, however, have steadily climbed — from $11.8 million and 66 employees in fiscal year 2017-18 to $19.6 million and 109 employees this year, according to state budget records. 

The increases were largely tied to additional duties, however, and the agency’s base funding is not adequate, argued McMorris of California Common Cause. Elected officials may lack the political will to dedicate more money to the agency, or to expand the agency’s authority, McMorris said.

“You are essentially asking the politicians who are being policed by this agency to increase the budget for policing,” he said. “There’s a tendency to do the least amount and only do it when there’s a scandal or evidence that something’s being exploited.”

The commission has only been audited once — in 1998 — in its entire 50-year history. That’s because “elected leaders have decided it’s not in their interest to do so,” said Glazer.

Efforts to speed up enforcement

Over the years, the agency has created and expanded programs to expedite cases with minor violations. While commission leaders argue the steps can prevent backlogs, some ethics advocates say some programs are applied too broadly and could give bad actors too much leniency.

To free up staff to pursue more egregious cases, the commission created a “streamline program” in May 2015 and has since expanded it to include lower-tier violations, such as late filings, contributions above limits and recordkeeping errors. The cases often result in lower penalties approved by the enforcement chief. Between 2015 and 2023, an average of 20% of cases closed with violations found each year went through that program, according to executive staff reports.

The commission also has had an educational program since 2022 to allow inexperienced offenders with low-harm violations to complete a class to avoid penalties. The Legislature funded three full-time staffers for the program last year, and 280 public officials had completed the courses by August.

The program helps the commission spot those who flout the law, Silver said. “If you are taking that course for three hours, and you engage in the same violation … this person is acting in bad faith.”

In 2022, the agency adopted the policy directive to clear the enforcement backlog, and has added staff attorneys to weed out frivolous complaints, West told CalMatters.

But the policy stopped short of setting hard deadlines after roughly 20 investigators, attorneys and consultants argued it would worsen “out of control” caseloads.

The backlog was so severe that some enforcement staffers recommended closing all cases on alleged violations more than three years old, as long as they had not issued a “probable cause” report against them. “There are no amount of hours in the day to resolve the current number of cases open,” said a December 2022 staff letter.

But other staff warned the approach may be a quick fix, arguing previous attempts to close cases en masse due to insufficient resources “only treated the symptom — not the cause.”

Legislative efforts to set enforcement deadlines have failed. This year, a bill introduced by state Assemblymember Evan Low, a Cupertino Democrat, would have required enforcement actions against most violations within two years. Low, who is running for Congress, is still under investigation by the commission for alleged violations in 2020, when CalMatters reported that he failed to disclose donors to a nonprofit affiliated with a legislative caucus he helps lead.

Low told CalMatters the bill wouldn’t have applied to his case, but declined to comment on his own investigation. Expeditious enforcement, he said, would absolve the innocent quickly when ethics complaints are “weaponized.”

“If it’s not concluded in real time, then you have a cloud hanging over you for perpetuity,” he said.

The policy directive — and more warning letters — has worked, however. By September 2023 the division had already closed 35% of cases opened before 2023, according to a quarterly report. By January 2024, the closure rate climbed to 56%. And by the end of May, it reached 68%, with 917 unresolved cases.

Warning letters work to deter violations because, like penalties, they are a bad look “on a campaign mailer,” Silver said.

But some ethics advocates, such as McMorris, argued too many types of violations are eligible for warning letters or the streamlined process. “You now have a situation where you can take that backlog and scoop up a big load of those … complaints” and clear them, he said.

Balber cautioned against the heightened use of warning letters if the goal is solely to close cases more quickly, though a Consumer Watchdog-backed political committee — formed in 2022 to support a proposed ballot measure increasing compensation cap for medical malpractice victims — received a letter last year for failing to file disclosure reports on time.

“If you prioritize speed over quality, you get lesser results,” she said. “That to me says staff is being pressured to get done faster no matter the outcome, and that’s troubling.”

Sunday is the 98th Academy Awards, where many of Hollywood's top talents will walk the red carpet before settling in for a night of triumphs, heartbreaks and abruptly cut-off acceptance speeches.

Most of us just refer to the ceremony as "the Oscars," the longstanding nickname of the gold-plated statuettes that winners in each category take home.

Cedric Gibbons, the art director of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, is credited with designing the iconic statue ahead of the first annual awards banquet of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (aka "the Academy") in 1929.

He dreamed up the knight (possibly modeled on a Mexican actor of the era) standing on a reel of film, holding a crusader's sword to defend the industry from outside criticism. And Los Angeles-based sculptor George Stanley made the statuette a reality, one that stands 13 1/2 inches tall and weighs 8 1/2 pounds.

Its full legal name is the "Academy Award of Merit." The Academy officially adopted its nickname, Oscar, in 1939.

But where did it come from?

Bruce Davis got that question all the time — in letters and emails from the curious public — during his two-decade tenure as the Academy's executive director, which ended in 2011.

"And what astonished me was that when I would ask around the building, everybody would say, 'Well, we don't exactly know,'" he told NPR. "And so I didn't do anything about it myself until I was retiring."

Davis decided to use his newfound free time to compile a history of the institution, ultimately publishing The Academy and the Award in 2022. One of the questions it explores is the origin of the Oscar nickname.

"As it turned out, that was not an easy thing to find out," Davis said. "It took a lot of running around and doing some actual research, and I did finally come up with something that I'm reasonably confident is the right answer."

There are three enduring — and competing — myths about where the name came from. Davis debunked them all and proposed a fourth.

The debunked claims 

"Oscar" made its first mainstream newspaper appearance as shorthand for an Academy Award in March 1934, when entertainment journalist Sidney Skolsky used it in his Hollywood gossip column.

Davis recounts the apocryphal legend this way: Skolsky was running up against deadline on his awards-night rough draft when he was stopped by the word "statuette."

"He thought it sounded awfully snobby and he didn't know how to spell it," he said. "And he asked a couple of people around in the hall, and I guess no one was helping him spell statuette."

Skolsky later said he thought back to a vaudeville routine where the master of ceremonies would tease an orchestra member by asking, "Oscar, will you have a cigar?" And he claimed he decided to poke fun at the ceremony's pretentiousness by referring to the statuettes as Oscars instead.

Davis sees a few holes in this story, namely that the term appeared in at least one industry publication months before Skolsky's column. But it's not a total loss for Skolsky, who is separately credited with coining or at least popularizing the term "beefcake."

The most famous version of events involves none other than legendary actress Bette Davis. She had long claimed, including in her 1962 biography, that she coined the Oscar's nickname while accepting her first Academy Award some three decades earlier.

"Her story was that she was holding [it] in her hands and just kind of waiting for the ceremonies to move along, and she started looking at the hindquarters of the statuette and she said … the hindquarters of the statuette were the very image of her husband," Davis explained.

But Davis' husband at the time, musician Harmon Oscar Nelson Jr., was primarily known by another nickname, "Ham." And mentions of "Oscar" appeared in print years before Davis won her first one, in 1936. Davis eventually retracted the claim in her 1974 book, telling her biographer: "A sillier controversy never existed."

"I don't feel my fame and fortune came from naming Oscar 'Oscar,'" she said, according to USA Today. "I relinquish once and for all any claim."

The more-likely suspects

Perhaps a more likely source is Margaret Herrick, the Academy's mid-20th century librarian-turned-executive director.

She apparently referred to the statue as such in the 1930s "because it looked like her Uncle Oscar," said Monica Sandler, a film and media historian at Ball State University.

Sandler says Herrick is the most logical choice, given her proximity to the Academy.

Herrick joined her then-husband, executive director Donald Gledhill, at the Academy in the early 1930s as an unpaid volunteer, and became its official librarian in 1936. Herrick took over as interim executive director when he left for the Army in 1943.

She was formally appointed to the role two years later and led the Academy until her retirement in 1971.

"There are very few women with the type of power and control she had over an institution at that time in the industry," Sandler said.

Herrick is credited with building up the Academy's library into one of the world's primary film research centers, as well as negotiating the award show's first television contract — and a major step toward financial independence — in 1953.

Davis says she often took credit, in conversations and media interviews, for jokingly naming the Oscar after her uncle. But he's skeptical of Herrick's claim.

"We're not sure that she was really the first person to use that because she had difficulties over the ensuing years in identifying this Uncle Oscar," he explained.

Davis does, however, think that the most likely originator was someone else on the early staff of the Academy: Eleanore Lilleberg, a secretary and office assistant who apparently oversaw the pre-ceremony handling of the statuettes.

He said her name surfaced every now and then, but he didn't have "much hard proof" until after his retirement, when he got wind of the Einar Lilleberg Museum. It's a small community center in California's Green Valley honoring Eleanore's brother, Einar Lilleberg, an artist and craftsman. He booked a visit and immediately happened upon a box of Einar's writings.

"And I thought: 'This is it. Now, this is going to tell the story about the Oscar,'" Davis says. "And he almost did."

He said Einar's correspondence was light on detail, but unmistakably credited the naming to his sister, describing it as: "Yes, she got in the habit of doing that, and the rest of the staff thought it was amusing not to call them the 'Academy Award of Merit,' but just 'Oscar' … and it really did catch on."

So which Oscar did Lilleberg have in mind? Her brother's explanation, which Davis endorses, is that she was thinking back to a Norwegian veteran they had known as children in Chicago, who "was kind of a character in town and famous for standing straight and tall."

Davis wasn't able to track down that particular Oscar. But he says no one has challenged his theory in the years since his book was published, "so I'm sticking with it."

The lingering mystery 

While Davis takes some personal satisfaction in the outcome of his quest, he accepts that the mystery of the Oscar nickname may never be solved conclusively.

"If I had come up empty, I wouldn't be arguing that we need to change the name," he said. "But it's interesting that it became such a tradition. There were no film awards that had a personal name before Oscar gained his, and then … within the next couple of years … everybody started looking for a personal name."

Sandler, the media historian, says that because the Academy Awards were "really the first major pop culture award," many others used it as a template.

The prizes in other countries' most-prestigious award ceremonies have similarly personified names: France's César Awards, Mexico's Ariel Awards, Italy's David's. Plus, there are the Emmy and Tony awards, both products of the mid-20th century.

Davis says he's just satisfied that people are still interested in the Oscars, regardless of who they're named after.

"You feel closer to an award if you're on a first-name basis with it, I guess," he added.

After years of faded storefronts, Inglewood’s Market Street is getting a facelift.

The Inglewood City Council voted 4-0 on Tuesday to move forward with plans to split $8.5 million in state grant money among Market Street businesses for renovation projects. 

Market Street’s shopping area, which runs south from Florence Avenue, has visibly lagged behind other corners of Inglewood during the city’s decade-long building blitz. 

“It’s a ghost town for the most part,” said Jeffrey Psalms, owner of the Cuban Leaf Cigar Lounge. 

The revitalization of Market Street “has always been a priority,” said Bernard McCrumby, the city’s development services director. He said city officials want the street to become a cultural hub that represents the best parts of Inglewood.

City leaders are timing their beautification efforts to coincide with a hopeful boost in foot traffic from the planned Inglewood Transit Connector. The city is currently moving to take over the shopping mall on Market Street and Florence Avenue for the transit station.

A large part of the city’s planning are the business renovation grants — up to $250,000 cash grants that McCrumby said business owners can use for internal or external improvements. McCrumby said the grants are conditional on building owners keeping rents stable for five years. 

The city has been working on the project since early 2025. McCrumby said the first group of awardees were notified this week, with another group coming soon. PCR Business Finance, a development advisory firm, is being paid by the city to run the program. 

Not every business on Market Street will get a grant. The city had more than 80 applicants ask for more than $17 million in grants last summer — well over what the city has available — and won’t be opening up for new applications, McCrumby said. 

Owen Smith, one of the co-owners of The Miracle Theater, said the theater won a $250,000 grant that it will use to repair the theater’s marquee and refresh the outside paint. Smith said the theater is hoping the grants and permits will come through before the FIFA World Cup. 

“It’s a boost,” he said. “We’ll see what it turns into.” 

Psalms, the cigar lounge owner, said he wasn’t able to apply for a grant because he couldn’t track down the owner of his building to sign off on an application. To him, he said, the program was a bust.

Inglewood is aiming to have all of its Market Street beautification efforts done in advance of the Olympics, McCrumby said.

Market Street is going in a different direction from its heyday, official says

Psalms recalled a different level of energy on the street when he was a child visiting the former Fox Theatre, the Big 5 and the Inglewood Marketplace swap meet. He believes there’s still a lot of potential.

“The intention to be better is there. I don’t think we’ve been forgotten about,” Psalms said. 

Where development in other parts of the city has spiked in recent years, Market Street has lagged. Sip & Sonder, a Black-owned coffee shop that held down a flagship spot on Market Street for seven years, closed in December. 

Psalms estimated half of the storefronts around his lounge are vacant. His own business remains stable, he said, thanks to a stream of out-of-town visitors. 

McCrumby said the street is starting to “go in a different direction” from its heyday. More bars and restaurants line the street than before, he said, and city residents should expect more service businesses as residential development continues in Inglewood’s downtown core. 

The city is also in the middle of planning for streetscape improvements that could include new lighting and landscaping. Last week, the city hosted meetings with business owners and community members to get feedback on designs.

For decades, people applying for Medicaid were told their personal information — including their names, addresses and immigration status — would not be used for immigration enforcement.

But a December court ruling changed that. And that change has sent ripples of fear through families and communities.

"My daughter's life depends on Medicaid," says P., who asked that NPR identify her by her first initial only.

P. and her family have legal immigration status, but she fears that the health insurance keeping her medically fragile daughter alive could also put her family at risk of being detained or deported by immigration authorities.

For decades Medicaid promised eligible immigrants they wouldn't share information with immigration authorities. It was even explicitly written on government websites. Those commitments are no longer on the Medicaid website.

The promise was meant to assure eligible immigrants "to feel comfortable that they can access their care without fear of putting their immigration status into jeopardy," says Cindy Mann, who oversaw Medicaid during the Obama administration and now works at the legal and consulting firm Manatt Health.

Mann calls the change, which the Trump administration began quietly last year, a "180-degree reversal of longstanding policy."

'Anxiety every day'

P.'s 11-year-old daughter has Rett Syndrome, a rare neurological condition that makes it hard for her to eat, breathe, walk and talk.

"She receives in-home support," P. says, along with frequent visits to cardiologists, pulmonologists and other specialists. "She also receives [physical therapy], [occupational therapy], speech, aquatic therapy on a weekly basis."

All this care would cost tens of thousands of dollars without Medicaid — the joint state and federal health insurance program for more than 70 million people with low-incomes or disabilities.

P. says she and her husband are allowed to work in the U.S. legally and have private health insurance through their jobs. They have two children who qualify for Medicaid coverage because of disabilities.

"It brings us an amount of anxiety every day," P. says. She's had friends detained by immigration authorities and she worries about her family's safety. This is the case even though everyone in P.'s family has legal status, including two of their children who are citizens.

Unusual requests 

Twenty-two states have sued to stop federal health agencies from sharing Medicaid data with the Department of Homeland Security, including Arizona, Michigan and New Jersey. At the moment, following the December ruling in federal court in San Francisco, Medicaid can share names, addresses and other identifying information for people who are in the country unlawfully with immigration officials. In the remaining 28 states including Texas, Kentucky and Utah, there are no limits on what Medicaid data can be shared with Immigration and Customs Enforcement and other entities.

Some other recent federal actions are raising new alarms.

One former state Medicaid director told NPR they received what they described as a highly unusual request from the federal government in summer 2025 — a list of mostly Latino-looking last names, with instructions to check only immigration status.

The director, who spoke on condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to discuss federal communications, said that's not how these reviews typically work. Usually, states are asked to review all criteria — income, disability and immigration status — to determine eligibility for the program, not single out one factor.

The director says they were floored. After reviewing the cases, they found everyone on the list remained eligible to continue with Medicaid.

Last August, the federal agency that oversees Medicaid, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services (CMS), started a new initiative to review immigration status of Medicaid enrollees. The agency said in a press release it would start sending monthly enrollment reports with names of people it needed states to verify.

The Department of Homeland Security did not respond to NPR's questions about whether the data has been used for immigration enforcement. In the Federal Register and in a memo issued in October 2025, ICE says that it is rescinding a 2013 policy that said CMS and HHS data would not be used for immigration enforcement. The Associated Press first reported on the Trump administration's change in July 2025.

Choosing between care and fear

At Venice Family Clinic in Los Angeles, staff say patients are increasingly asking whether it's safe to remain on Medicaid.

Pattie Lopez manages the clinic's health insurance department. She says one patient became so worried about the policy change that she dropped her coverage — only to return after struggling without it.

"She found it incredibly hard to go without health coverage," Lopez says. "Now she's here taking a risk because she needs her medication."

Venice Family Clinic is qualified to receive special federal funding to take care of vulnerable communities, and 80% of its 45,000 patients rely on Medicaid. If people drop coverage but still need care, the clinic could face financial strain. It has already frozen hiring and is looking for other ways to cut costs.

Andrew Cohen, an attorney with Health Law Advocates in Massachusetts, said that for people already enrolled in Medicaid or other programs, the federal government likely has their information already.

"So remaining on coverage may be no additional risk," he said. "But there are instances where it may not be safe for everybody."

Some immigrants may be weighing whether to sign up or continue coverage. For P., though, walking away from Medicaid isn't possible.

"We don't have any other option," she says about dropping coverage for her severely disabled daughter. "We will have to risk that."

Without the coverage, she says, it's her daughter's life that would be at risk.

When Kate Morrow gave birth to twins eight years ago, they were very premature, with compromised immune systems.

"We counted on the community to keep our children safe," Morrow says. She trusted that her neighbors were vaccinating their children to protect other vulnerable people in her community — including her twins. But that's no longer the case.

Morrow and her family moved to Spartanburg County, S.C., in 2019. The area is the epicenter of the biggest measles outbreak in the U.S. in more than three decades, with nearly 1,000 confirmed cases. Measles — one of the world's most contagious diseases — was declared eliminated in the U.S. in 2000, thanks to widespread vaccination and school vaccine requirements.

But with the current resurgence of measles, the country is at risk of losing that elimination status.

In Spartanburg County, school vaccination rates have fallen to just under 89% — well below the 95% threshold needed to prevent community outbreaks.

And it's not just Spartanburg. There are places around the country where vaccination rates have sunk to levels low enough to allow outbreaks to flare, says Michael Osterholm, director of the University of Minnesota's Center for Infectious Disease Research and Policy.

"There are a lot more South Carolinas waiting to happen," he says.

Morrow says it's hard for her to understand why so many parents in her community are turning against vaccines.

"How did we get here?" she asks. "How did we get to a place where we don't trust our doctors to do the very best thing for our children? How did we get to a place where vaccinations have become political?"

The answer is a mix of widespread misinformation, lingering resentment over COVID mandates and politicians at the local and national level who are sowing mistrust of vaccines.

'I don't trust anything anymore'

Margarita DeLuca says she didn't give much thought to vaccines until COVID hit. She has three children and lives in neighboring Greenville County. When the COVID vaccine was first rolled out, DeLuca was scared that it had been developed too quickly to be trustworthy, and she was opposed to vaccine mandates.

"I think it should have been a choice. It shouldn't have been shoved down your throat like you have to do it," DeLuca says.

DeLuca is not alone. Resentment over vaccine mandates and other public health measures during the pandemic prompted more parents to question vaccine requirements, says Dr. Martha Edwards, president of the South Carolina chapter of the American Academy of Pediatrics.

"COVID hit and people really didn't like the mandates and that was a big boiling point," Edwards says. "And in South Carolina, that really has caused a lot of people to escalate their feelings of 'don't tell me what to do.' "

Still, when DeLuca's eldest child, Nikko, was born in the summer of 2021, she got him his routine shots for the first couple of years of his life.

But about a week after he got his 2-year-old vaccinations, Nikko spiked a fever and experienced a seizure.

"He froze up and then he started convulsing right in my arms — the scariest thing ever," DeLuca recalls.

Nikko recovered. Her pediatrician at the time told her these seizures can happen when toddlers get high fevers, and it's unlikely vaccines played a role. But DeLuca remains dubious.

"He hasn't had any seizures since. But he hasn't had any vaccines either. I'm not saying it's from that, but there is a chance," she says.

So, like a growing number of parents nationwide, DeLuca decided to forgo vaccinations for Nikko, now 4, and his twin infant siblings.

"I'm grateful that I did not vaccinate them right now," she says. "Maybe at 5 years old, their bodies are bigger and they have a higher immune system. They can handle things."

Local pediatrician Stuart Simko with Prisma Health in Greer, S.C., says he hears this from other parents. And he tries to explain why delaying vaccinations is risky.

"This is the time where your child is at a higher risk, the younger they are, for complications from many of the things that we vaccinate against," he says.

For instance, the measles, mumps and rubella, or MMR, vaccine can prevent serious complications from measles like brain swelling and pneumonia, both of which have been documented among children in this outbreak. Vaccines can also prevent immune amnesia, a phenomenon where the virus wipes out parts of the immune system, leaving kids vulnerable to new infections for several years.

And the virus can be deadly. Before the first vaccines were developed in the 1960s measles used to kill hundreds of U.S. children every year.

Simko says he tries not to judge parents but to listen to their fears.

"The parent who's choosing not to vaccinate their child, they're not trying to make a bad medical decision. They want what's best for their child. And we have to understand where they're coming from," he says.

Social media is a big problem. Many of Simko's patients are overwhelmed by information; some of it is good, he says and some is just not backed by science.

DeLuca says she no longer knows what to believe when it comes to online information.

"I don't trust anything anymore. I really don't."

Exemptions rise, vaccination rates fall 

Spartanburg County is a solidly conservative part of South Carolina. Dotted with small towns, its sprawling countryside is home to rural communities, conservative faith groups and a sizable Slavic immigrant population. All of these groups tend to have lower vaccination rates across the U.S.

In the majority of states, parents can apply for nonmedical exemptions to required vaccines for religious, personal or philosophical reasons. In Spartanburg County, the use of religious exemptions has skyrocketed since the pandemic. Today, nearly 10% of students in the county have a religious exemption — up from 3.4% at the start of the 2020-21 school year.

The result is that vaccination rates among school children are dropping. The majority of schools in Spartanburg County now have vaccination rates below the 95% threshold required to prevent measles outbreaks. In one public charter school — which has seen dozens of students quarantined for measles — the vaccination rate is a shockingly low 21%.

Republican state Sen. Josh Kimbrell, a lifelong Spartanburg resident, says he understands why parents have grown more skeptical of vaccines in the wake of what he calls the government's "overbearing" response to COVID. But he says the distrust has gotten "out of control."

The exemptions have become easy to obtain — parents can download a form and they don't have to state their religious reasoning. All they have to do is get it notarized.

"I know people who haven't set foot in a church in five years who suddenly decide it's a religious liberty exemption and don't have a religious reason," Kimbrell says. "They just don't want to do it. And that's fine but just say that."

Public health researchers say eliminating nonmedical exemptions to vaccine requirements could help raise falling vaccination rates. But in South Carolina, where opposition to government mandates is firmly entrenched, that's unlikely to happen. Last week, the state legislature shot down a bill that would have kept unvaccinated children out of schools.

And it's not just South Carolina. A recent study found the rate of nonmedical exemptions to vaccines has risen steadily in the majority of U.S. counties, and this trend has accelerated since the pandemic.

Parents changing their minds

Gene Zakharov is one of those Spartanburg parents who got religious exemptions for his children. He owns a cafe, 121 Coffee, in sight of Emmanuel Church where he's an active member of the leadership team.

Zakharov is part of the large Slavic community drawn to Spartanburg by its conservative politics and sunshine. He says many people from the former Soviet Union who settled here "don't believe in vaccines."

"People who lived there have a big distrust in the government, to say the least," he says.

He and his wife didn't vaccinate their two youngest children. They worried about potential side effects from vaccines. But they changed their minds after their 13-year-old daughter was exposed to measles at a friend's house and spent time in quarantine.

"It doesn't hit you until you actually come in contact with something like this. You're like, well, thank God my kid is all right. But you know, what if she wasn't?"

Zakharov is not the only parent questioning earlier decisions. As the measles outbreak exploded in January, pediatrician Stuart Simko says his phone started ringing.

"I've had several patients who've said no to vaccinations in the past who've said, 'Hey, what do you think of the MMR?' " he says. "What do you think about measles? It's in our backyard."

He explains how dangerous the measles virus can be. And "a lot of people are changing their minds," Simko says.

Combatting myths and fears

Tracy Hobbs changed her mind recently.

Last month Hobbs brought her 5-year-old twins, Joseph and Alice, to a mobile vaccine clinic to get their first dose of the measles, mumps and rubella vaccine. The twins should have gotten their first shots around 12 months of age, but Hobbs decided against it at the time. That's because her oldest child, now 7, was diagnosed with autism shortly after he got his first measles vaccine.

Hobbs says she saw conflicting information about whether the vaccines were to blame.

"We were afraid that if we had gotten the kids the vaccines, that it might actually cause autism," Hobbs says. "And that's really messed us up because what are you supposed to believe?"

Claims linking the vaccine to autism stem from a 1998 study that has been thoroughly debunked by a large body of research, but this misinformation still circulates widely. Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has long promoted the discredited claim and he recently directed the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to change its website to say the link can not be ruled out. Hobbs says all the conflicting information out there is confusing.

"You have one person saying, hey, this could cause the kid to get autism. And then you have somebody saying, no. I've gotten conflicting information since the day they were born," she says.

But when her twins were also diagnosed with autism, even though they weren't vaccinated, Hobbs changed her mind. With measles spreading rapidly around her, she decided to get them the shot. "The measles aren't really something to play with," Hobbs says.

'Not an outlier'

Spartanburg mom Kate Morrow says it pains her to know this kind of misinformation about vaccines and autism still circulates. One of her twins has autism. Both are fully vaccinated.

She wants to encourage parents to trust the science and to speak openly with their pediatrician about their fears.

She feels so strongly about this that she's helping a pro-vaccine advocacy group called South Carolina Families for Vaccines get off the ground. "I'm rooting for the mom in the middle that's feeling lost and scared and doesn't really know what to do," Morrow says.

There's some evidence that outreach efforts are working. State epidemiologist Linda Bell says vaccination rates in Spartanburg County were up by 133% in February compared to the previous year. And new measles cases have slowed significantly.

But the danger hasn't disappeared altogether, says Scott Thorpe, executive director of the Southern Alliance for Public Health Leadership.

"I think what keeps me up at night more than anything else is that Spartanburg is not an outlier," he says. He notes that just across the border in western North Carolina, there are lots of counties with lower vaccination rates. "And we've already started to see some cases there."

Across the U.S., there have been 12 new measles outbreaks so far this year, and more than 1,280 confirmed cases, according to the CDC.

"It's just kind of percolating in all these places," Thorpe says. "And eventually it's going to catch on and turn into a big outbreak, just like Spartanburg. And it's just going to keep on happening as vaccination rates get lower."