Rural Oklahoma communities are desperate to protect their vulnerable hospitals and hand the reins to management companies that say they're turnaround experts. Instead some companies failed the hospitals, bled them dry and expedited their demise.
This article was first published on Thursday, June 4, 2020 in ProPublica.
By Brianna Bailey, The Frontier
It was the sort of miracle cure that the board of a rural Oklahoma hospital on the verge of closure had dreamed about: A newly formed management company promised access to wealthy investors eager to infuse millions of dollars.
The company, Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma, secured an up to $1 million annual contract in July 2017 to manage the Mangum Regional Medical Center after agreeing to provide all necessary financial resources until the 18-bed hospital brought in enough money from patient services to pay its own bills.
But about a month later, hospital board members were summoned to an emergency meeting.
Early one morning in August 2017, Alliance's CEO Frank Avignone told hospital board members that his company, which had boasted of access to up to $255 million from well-heeled investors, was out of money.
Alliance needed a line of credit, and the bank required the board's permission to use the hospital's incoming payments as collateral. If board members didn't agree, paying nurses and other health care workers would be a "slight miracle," Avignone said, according to an audio recording of the meeting that was obtained by The Frontier and ProPublica.
"There were supposed to be so many millions available," Staci Goode, chairwoman of the hospital board, said during the meeting, asking what happened to the promises made just weeks earlier.
Investors needed to see an improvement in the hospital's finances before committing their money, Avignone replied.
"We're in a bad spot right now with our investors just like you are," he said. "We're out over our skis a little bit."
Exasperated, Mangum's hospital board approved the line of credit.
Over the next year and a half, Alliance borrowed millions of dollars from the bank. The company paid itself and businesses tied to its partners a significant chunk of the money and then used $4 million from Medicare to help pay down the line of credit, according to interviews with town leaders and court records obtained by The Frontier and ProPublica.
Financial pressures have forced the closures of 130 rural hospitals across the country in the past decade, leaving communities grasping for solutions to avoid losing health care in areas with the most need. Rural health experts fear many more won't survive the coronavirus pandemic.
An investigation by The Frontier and ProPublica found that some private management companies hired to save the most vulnerable hospitals in rural Oklahoma have instead failed them, bled them dry and expedited their demise.
It starts like this: Rural communities desperate to protect their hospitals hand the reins to management companies that portray themselves as turnaround experts and vow to invest millions of dollars.
Those companies are often hired without background checks or any requirement that they have experience running hospitals. They operate under nearly nonexistent state and local regulations with little oversight from volunteer governing boards. After they extract hefty monthly fees, they sometimes cut ties and leave rural communities scrambling.
In Mangum, a prairie town of 2,800 people in southwestern Oklahoma, the hospital is fighting several ongoing lawsuits stemming from Alliance's management. It also has filed its own litigation, accusing Alliance of fraud and of siphoning away millions of dollars from the hospital. Alliance disputes the allegations and is countersuing to collect $1 million in management fees it claims the hospital still owes for its services.
Leaders from the Oklahoma towns of Seiling and Pauls Valley, who relied on Alliance's assurances that it could revive their hospitals, similarly accuse the company of making lofty promises and leaving them deeper in debt.
Alliance's failure to produce promised investments for the Pauls Valley Regional Medical Center made it harder for the hospital to escape the debt it had incurred under its previous management company, said Jocelyn Rushing, the town's mayor. The hospital closed in October 2018 under Alliance's management.
"What I can tell you is that Frank is a smooth talker, and he definitely knows how to play the media to his side," Rushing said, referring to Avignone. "And he left Pauls Valley high and dry."
Avignone denies wrongdoing. He said leaders in Mangum and other small towns have no experience running hospitals and don't understand enough about the industry to appreciate the work done by his management company.
"At the end of the day, we did save the hospital but, you know, no good deed goes unpunished," Avignone said of Mangum. "The local municipality decided they didn't want us and called us crooks and ran us out of town."
In the end, Avignone said, his company did the best it could given the economic pressures facing rural hospitals.
"Vulture Capitalists"
Across the country, rural hospitals struggle under crushing financial realities. They are more dependent on Medicare and Medicaid, which generally provide lower reimbursement rates than private insurance companies. They also treat higher percentages of uninsured patients and struggle to recruit doctors and nurses. And they have millions of dollars in costs for basic maintenance and repairs that are often deferred for years because of razor-thin profit margins.
A study released in February by the Chartis Center for Rural Health estimates that about 450 rural hospitals across the country are vulnerable to closure.
The challenges are magnified in states like Oklahoma that have opted against expanding Medicaid for the working poor, as encouraged under the Affordable Care Act, hospital advocates and researchers say.
On June 30, Oklahoma voters will decide whether to expand Medicaid through a constitutional amendment. The state's Republican leadership has previously blocked expansion, but a petition drive supported by the Oklahoma Hospital Association landed the question on the primary ballot.
"Clearly, had these hospitals not been in such a precarious situation, these companies wouldn't even be in the picture," said Patti Davis, president of the hospital association.
Last year, the hospital association released guidance urging local officials to carefully assess the financial standing of management companies by requesting records that include tax returns and audited financial statements. The records, which offer a glimpse into a company's liabilities and assets, are not required under state law, but the association said refusing to produce them can be a red flag.
The guidance came as multiple rural hospitals struggled under the control of Missouri-based EmpowerHMS. One Oklahoma hospital run by the company closed in 2018 and four more entered bankruptcy in 2019.
Empower had boasted of its ability to increase revenue by entering into deals with outside toxicology laboratories that allowed flailing rural hospitals to bill at higher rates for blood and urine tests performed elsewhere. But insurance companies soon flagged ballooning laboratory bills as possible fraud and the U.S. Department of Justice launched a criminal investigation. It's not clear if the investigation is still ongoing. Empower has denied allegations of wrongdoing in response to a federal lawsuit filed by insurance companies.
The vast financial challenges facing rural hospitals can make it difficult to determine how much strain resulted from the management companies. A recent federal report found that hospitals owned by for-profit companies have a particularly high closure rate. Such hospitals represented 11% of rural medical facilities but 36% of closures from 2013 through 2017, according to a 2018 report from the U.S. Government Accountability Office.
Struggling hospitals can be good business for companies seeking to turn a quick profit, said Tom Getzen, professor emeritus of risk, insurance and health management at Temple University.
"What you've got is management companies that are vulture capitalists," Getzen said. "These are organizations that know that entities that are in difficulty probably would never be profitable but can have their assets stripped out and can therefore make money. It's important to recognize that troubled company management is actually a very profitable business."
As the coronavirus threatens to further hamstring rural hospitals, forcing them to cancel lucrative elective procedures and purchase additional medical supplies, concerns grow that more communities will fall prey to promises of magical turnarounds.
"You have these communities that are desperate, and they are willing to sign a deal with the devil," said Casey Murdock, a Republican state senator whose district includes nine of Oklahoma's more than 80 rural hospitals. "These companies strip the hospital down, make all they can make and move on to the next one."
"The Company Was Founded on a 1 a.m. Phone Call"
Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma formed four days before the company signed a contract to manage the Mangum hospital.
In fact, Avignone, a co-owner of Praxeo Health, a Dallas-based laboratory services company, had never run a hospital.
But with help from Larry Troxell, a well-known Oklahoma hospital manager, as well as a company providing surgery services in Mangum, Alliance persuaded board members that it could provide a breadth of financial resources that no other company could.
"The company was founded on a 1 a.m. phone call," said Avignone, adding that a former business partner called to tell him the hospital would close the following day without assistance. Avignone didn't name the former partner.
This was not Mangum's first experience with a management company. In June 2017, right before it struck the deal with Alliance, the town had wrested control of the hospital from Little River Healthcare, a now-defunct company that filed for bankruptcy the following year.
In order to take over the operating license for the hospital, the governing board, which at the time was Mangum's city commission, had to absorb $2.1 million of debt accrued by the previous operators.
Town leaders didn't have money to run the hospital, but they knew that its closure would leave about 80 employees without jobs. Residents would have to travel at least 25 miles to get to the nearest emergency room if the hospital closed.
That's when they turned to Avignone.
Two months before the town took charge of the hospital, Troxell reached out to Avignone for help. The two had met in 2014 at Medical University of South Carolina while pursuing doctoral degrees in health administration. According to Troxell, who served as the interim CEO for the Mangum hospital during the transition, Avignone called him two years later to say he had a group of investors interested in buying hospitals.
Troxell was an investor in Greenfield Resources, a company that claimed to have developed new technology to treat wastewater. Greenfield, Praxeo Health and Alliance Management Group, owned by Darrell Parke, later partnered to form Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma. Troxell said that while he invested in Greenfield, he had no ownership stake in any of the companies.
After Alliance was hired, it quickly became apparent that Avignone didn't have the money he had promised, said Troxell, who remained at the Mangum hospital working as an administrator. He said he went without pay in Mangum and used his personal credit card to purchase supplies.
Alliance did not respond to questions about his claim.
"The only thing I can tell you about Frank is he misled me. He misled everybody," said Troxell, now the CEO of a rural hospital in Texas. "And I believe that he had partners that had money that could bring it to the table at Mangum. And he didn't do it."
"I'm So Angry"
Tammy Sandifer never had a hard time trusting people until she accepted a job as a lab technician at the Pauls Valley Regional Medical Center, about 60 miles south of Oklahoma City.
In November 2017, Sandifer moved her family from Mississippi to Oklahoma on the assurance that the town's 64-bed hospital was financially stable.
Wearing a crisp white lab coat and medical scrubs, Avignone, who isn't a doctor, rubbed his face as he announced that the hospital was immediately closing its doors.
"You can only live on borrowed time for so long," Avignone told employees.
The hospital closed on Oct. 12, 2018. Five days later, Sandifer was diagnosed with cancer.
A mother of two and the primary breadwinner in her family, Sandifer had learned just weeks earlier that she didn't have health insurance.
The hospital had been deducting $566 from Sandifer's paycheck for health benefits for her family of four. An additional $70 a month was pulled from her paycheck for a supplemental cancer policy.
NewLight Healthcare, a different management company, was running the hospital when Sandifer was hired. It had missed payments for the self-funded employee health insurance plan, even as money continued to be deducted from workers' paychecks, according to interviews and a May 2018 letter from the hospital's health benefits administrator.
Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma took charge of the hospital in July 2018. The company made some payments but never caught up.
The money to pay for insurance just wasn't available because "the previous manager let all of that lapse," Avignone said, referring to NewLight.
NewLight Healthcare did not answer detailed questions from The Frontier and ProPublica about the lapse in insurance payments at Pauls Valley, but it said in a statement that the company "consistently worked alongside community leaders, providers, state associations, and other leaders to attempt to create new models and programs that will improve the business climate for rural hospitals."
The company added that rural hospitals will continue suffering until government leaders provide additional funding.
Under Alliance, the hospital also stopped paying payroll taxes, according to city leaders who provided The Frontier and ProPublica with a spreadsheet indicating how much the hospital owed employees after the closure.
"None of the payroll taxes were being paid. Nothing — state, federal — nothing," said James Frizell, the city manager for Pauls Valley. "How do you do that? How do you with a good conscience even think about doing that?"
At least seven rural hospitals in Oklahoma run by management companies stopped paying workers' wages or failed to pay for health insurance benefits in 2018 and 2019, The Frontier and ProPublica found.
In the past year, the Oklahoma Department of Labor awarded more than $1 million in unpaid wages, benefits and damages to workers at rural hospitals that have either closed or experienced financial distress. But the agency doesn't have the power to enforce the judgments or make employers pay workers.
"It's been disappointing to see the number of claims this past year that we've had to investigate," said Don Schooler, general counsel for the Labor Department. "We recognize it has affected entire communities and huge, huge portions of the state."
Since the money had already been pulled from her paycheck, Sandifer spent weeks trying to gather enough to purchase health insurance through the federal exchange under the Affordable Care Act.
Sandifer said she signed up the first week in October but had to wait until November for the plan to take effect. She now pays $700 a month for an individual plan.
The lapse in insurance coverage meant Sandifer had to wait a month to start treatment at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston.
By then, Sandifer had to have a portion of her pancreas removed. She said a tumor on her pancreas grew from about the size of a nickel to a silver dollar during the time spent waiting for treatment.
Since her surgery, the cancer has spread to her liver and her spine. She is undergoing clinical trials, hoping for good news.
Sandifer, who returned to Mississippi to be close to her family, said she can't help but feel betrayed.
"I had uprooted my entire family and trusted that everything was the way it was supposed to be because that's what they told me to my face," Sandifer said. "The fact that somebody could just look me in my eye and just lie, you know a baldfaced lie, I'm so angry but probably hurt more than anything."
Millions at Stake but No Written Contract
The experience of Pauls Valley and Mangum illustrate the consequences of nearly nonexistent state regulations and little oversight from local governing boards.
The state has few laws that govern hospital management companies, and those that exist are rarely enforced.
In Oklahoma, a management company can either own the license to operate a hospital or it can run a hospital for which a local government or nonprofit organization holds the license. Under state law, the owner of a hospital license must be "of reputable and responsible character."
State officials could not provide The Frontier and ProPublica with clear criteria for disqualification and were unable to identify any companies that were denied an operating license. They said such information was confidential.
Even the lax state regulations that exist don't apply to management companies running hospitals owned by Oklahoma towns and counties.Eight nurses are the overwhelming majority of employees who remain at Haskell County Community Hospital in Oklahoma. The future of the 25-bed hospital, which has been whittled down to operating only an emergency room since 2019, is increasingly grim.
In such cases, local governing boards are responsible for vetting companies and providing oversight. Many such towns hire management companies on little more than their word that they can reverse spiraling finances.
"No matter how much money you give these small towns, they're going to hire a management company," said T.J. Marti, a Republican state representative from Tulsa who supports legislation that would encourage nonprofit health care chains to take on management of rural hospitals. "They don't understand how health care works, and the management company literally takes every penny they can out of the hospital and reinvests nothing."
The Mangum hospital board didn't ask for proof that Alliance had the money it promised or get in writing how much investors were willing to commit. It approved a line of credit in Alliance's name but did not require that the company have board authorization when withdrawing money.
By comparison, the town of Seiling also approved a line of credit but insisted on keeping tight control over how the money would be spent. The hospital kept the line of credit in its name and required a vote of the board to withdraw money.
In Pauls Valley, the governing board handed control to Alliance on little more than a handshake. City leaders say no written contract exists despite minutes from a July 2018 meeting indicating that the hospital board approved a management agreement with Alliance.
"Unfortunately, most of it was implied," Frizell said.
NewLight loaned the hospital more than $1 million, charging it 9.75% interest annually. The hospital also owed the company for management fees that had been deferred.
By April 2018, the hospital owed NewLight more than $2 million, according to the company. Ready to cash out, the company cut ties with Pauls Valley and enforced a lien on the hospital's incoming payments, which meant it would be paid before employees and bills for medical supplies.
As town leaders scrambled to find a buyer for the hospital, a representative from Alliance contacted them to pitch the company's services. Alliance would manage the Pauls Valley hospital with the goal of eventually buying it.
"Frank Avignone, he comes and sells us a song and dance," Frizell said. "That he could infuse $1 million immediately in the hospital and $4 or $5 million in 90 days. That sounded good."
The multimillion-dollar investment never arrived.
Two months after taking over, Avignone instead sought to raise money by appealing to celebrities on social media.
"My friends and I that work at Pauls Valley Hospital in Oklahoma are reaching out to all the Hollywood stars to ask for your help in saving our little hospital," Avignone posted on the Facebook pages of television host Ellen DeGeneres and movie director Steven Spielberg in September 2018.
"The hospital has been in danger of closing for some time and we need help just getting the word out," Avignone wrote on country music star Shania Twain's Facebook page.
In a more personal Facebook plea to Darius Rucker, the lead singer of Hootie & the Blowfish, Avignone said: "Believe it or not you and I went to USC (University of South Carolina) at the same time! Now I find myself in a different part of the world trying to save a little country hospital in Pauls Valley Oklahoma."
"Little hospitals like this all over the country are in danger and I can only save one at a time," he wrote in the post. "So far my team and I have saved two others but right now I need help getting the word out about this one."
In an interview with The Frontier, Avignone said his plan to save the Pauls Valley hospital was pinned on his ability to tap the funding stream he discovered in Mangum. He wanted to obtain a line of credit by using the hospital's incoming payments as collateral. But Avignone said the plan was thwarted when he learned that NewLight had a stranglehold on the hospital's assets.
The Frontier and ProPublica requested any written contracts or agreements between the hospital and Alliance stipulating payments or promises and all financial records for the hospital. The city provided partial financial records but said many of the records were either lost or never existed.
Former Pauls Valley Mayor Gary Alfred said he knows the city should have done more to document Alliance's promises. But, he said, the town was desperate to save its hospital.
"If somebody comes in under the guise that they're going to provide for the hospital, that's not a stone you want to leave unturned," Alfred said.
"He's That Smooth"
In the year and a half that Alliance managed the Mangum hospital, the company and other businesses run by its owners were paid more than $3 million.
Alliance collected more than $1.2 million in fees and reimbursements, financial records show. Some employees were also reimbursed for expenses that included mileage to travel to the other two hospitals that the company managed in Oklahoma.
Mangum officials claim in litigation that Alliance lied about the hospital's financial position, skirting a provision in its contract that required the company to wait until all other financial obligations were met before collecting its management fee. Board members said that because they trusted the company's expertise, they relied on such representations when approving several payments they now dispute.
Praxeo Health, the laboratory services company co-owned by Avignone, was paid more than $350,000, records show. Avignone says the company was owed money after it paid employees in July 2017.
Two other companies, Medsurg Consulting and Surgery Center of Altus, which the Mangum hospital board says were co-owned by Darrell Parke, a partner in Alliance, collected $1.7 million, according to records.
Records show Parke signed contracts on behalf of both Medsurg and Surgery Center of Altus. Medsurg is registered in Oklahoma under Parke's name. While Surgery Center of Altus is registered under the name of a law firm, a contract Parke signed with Mangum lists him as a member of the company's ownership.
An attorney for Parke said his client denies the Mangum hospital board's claims. He declined to answer detailed questions from The Frontier and ProPublica.
In a May phone call, Avignone said he and his company were "being unfairly crucified by a lot of people." He also declined to answer detailed questions, saying instead that he would forward them to his attorneys, who would respond to The Frontier and ProPublica. They did not.
Mangum's hospital board fired Alliance in December 2018. In a letter severing its relationship with Alliance, the board said the company repeatedly breached its management agreement, citing a decision to use a $4 million cost reimbursement from the federal government to pay down the line of credit without the board's consent. It also highlighted payments to companies owned by Alliance's partners. Alliance never disclosed that its members were financially connected to some of those businesses, the board alleges in court documents.
A month later, the board voted to allow its attorneys to report Alliance to state and federal law enforcement. A formal complaint was never filed. Instead, the hospital board opted to sue Alliance.
"He's the greatest con man of all time," said Corry Kendall, Mangum's city attorney. "He would convince you that despite what all the paperwork says and what all the documents say and all the anecdotes say, that he's right. He's that smooth, and you want to believe that because he is one of those people that you want to believe."
Making matters worse, it turns out that Medicare had overpaid the hospital based on flawed calculations, reimbursing it for a full year of costs instead of for the partial year that it was owed. The hospital board currently projects it will have to repay the federal government about $3.5 million, which will likely have to be returned with 10.25% interest, according to the current management.
The bank that provided the line of credit to Alliance is suing the hospital for $1.8 million that has yet to be paid. And Surgery Center of Altus and Medsurg Consulting are suing the hospital, seeking the return of medical equipment and alleging about $1 million in damages. Both lawsuits are ongoing. The hospital has returned some equipment, according to court documents, but disputes that it owes the companies any money.
"I understand where they were coming from, but nobody stole any money from that hospital," Avignone said in an interview in October 2019. "Every dime went back into that hospital. We did everything that we could, as good stewards of municipal money, to make sure that that hospital not only stayed open but grew."
"Blind Hope"
The Mangum hospital is again out of money. And, once again, the town has pinned its turnaround hopes on a for-profit company: Oklahoma-based Cohesive Healthcare Management and Consulting.
Barry Smith, Cohesive's chief executive officer, said he believes a turnaround is possible but cautioned that the hospital can't afford any more lawsuits. A prolonged outbreak of the coronavirus could also further strain finances, he said.
"When you have a huge hole, it just takes a very long time to dig out of," Smith said.
At the end of March, Mangum owed Cohesive $6.7 million in unpaid management fees and payroll expenses for the hospital's medical staff. The company absorbed many of the hospital's costs after it took over from Alliance.
Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma is no longer operating. Avignone is now the CEO of Affinity Health Partners. The company operates the Washington Regional Medical Center in Plymouth, North Carolina, which entered bankruptcy in 2019 after the collapse of its former operator, EmpowerHMS.
In December, Affinity announced it couldn't come up with the money to pay hospital employees. Avignone blamed billing problems and a delay in funds from Medicare. The hospital later received a loan to cover payroll.
Kendall, Mangum's city attorney, said he's happy Alliance is no longer managing hospitals in Oklahoma, but he warned that the town's experience should encourage rural communities across the country to be more vigilant as they consider hiring for-profit companies.
"I'm hoping other communities elsewhere won't make the same pitfalls, fall in the same traps and mistakes, have the same lapses of judgment, the same blind hope that we had," Kendall said.
Revenues soared at some rural hospitals after management companies introduced laboratory services, until insurers accused them of gaming reimbursements.
This article was first published on Thursday, June 4, 2020 in ProPublica.
By Brianna Bailey, The Frontier
At least 13 hospitals in Oklahoma have closed or experienced added financial distress under the management of private companies. These companies sold themselves to rural communities in Oklahoma and other states as turnaround specialists.
Revenues soared at some rural hospitals after management companies introduced laboratory services programs, but those gains quickly vanished when insurers accused them of gaming reimbursement rates and halted payments. Some companies charged hefty management fees, promising to infuse millions of dollars but never investing. In other cases, companies simply didn't have the hospital management experience they trumpeted.
Below are examples of rural hospitals that pinned their hopes on private management companies that left them deeper in debt. They are based on interviews, public records and financial information from the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and the American Hospital Directory.
Rural Oklahoma communities are desperate to protect their vulnerable hospitals and hand the reins to management companies that say they're turnaround experts. Instead some companies failed the hospitals, bled them dry and expedited their demise.
Memorial Hospital of Texas County
Location: Guymon in Oklahoma's Panhandle
Number of hospital beds: 25
Status: Open. Currently managed by a chief executive officer hired by the hospital board.
Financial status in 2019:
Total assets, including real estate, cash on hand, investments and inventory: $4.5 million
Total liabilities, including mortgages and other loans, payroll costs and money owed to vendors: $5.9 million
Net income: -$331,493
Management history and finances: The county-owned hospital has cycled through four management companies in the past eight years. Oklahoma City-based Synergic Resource Partners, the most recent management company, failed to meet the emergency needs of patients, according to a 2018 investigation by the Oklahoma State Department of Health. The investigation found instances in which patients were not given critical life-saving medications, including antivenom for snake bites and a common clot-busting drug used to treat stroke patients. Synergic Resource Partners began managing the hospital in October 2017, but it took full control of operations in April 2018. In March 2019, Doug Swim, the company's CEO, sent a series of emails to the hospital board saying he would close the facility if the board didn't agree to take back ownership. One email asked the hospital board to sign a new $60,000 monthly management agreement with the company. Fearing Swim would close the hospital, the governing board filed a lawsuit in April 2019. The board settled with the company and regained control of the hospital the same month.
Company response: Swim declined an interview request. He said he would only answer questions if The Frontier and ProPublica granted him anonymity. The news organizations declined.
Latimer County General Hospital
Location: Wilburton in southeast Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 33
Status: Closed in October 2018.
Financial status in 2017:
Total assets: $10.9 million
Total liabilities: $1 million
Net income: -$580,400
Management history and finances: In September 2018, Blue Cross Blue Shield of Oklahoma dropped the hospital from its network, citing allegations of billing fraud involving its management company. The hospital was run by the now-defunct Missouri-based EmpowerHMS. When Latimer closed a month later, the hospital owed more than $1 million in unpaid payroll taxes and outstanding vendor invoices, former Chairman Danny Baldwin said.
Company response: Attempts to reach a representative for the company and for Empower were unsuccessful. Empower has denied allegations of wrongdoing in response to a federal lawsuit filed by insurance companies.
Pauls Valley Regional Medical Center
Location: Pauls Valley, about 60 miles south of Oklahoma City
Number of hospital beds: 64
Status: Closed in October 2018
Financial status in 2018:
Total assets: $6.6 million
Total: $14.4 million
Net income: -$8.1 million
Management history and finances: The governing board gave Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma control of the hospital in July 2018. Officials say no written contract exists. Alliance pledged to invest millions of dollars with a plan to eventually purchase the hospital, according to town leaders. The board believed the investment from Alliance would help the hospital pay its debt to the former management company, NewLight Healthcare, giving it a chance to start fresh. The multimillion-dollar investment never arrived.
Company response: Frank Avignone, CEO of the now-defunct Alliance Health Partners Southwest Oklahoma, said he planned to seek a bank loan and use the hospital's future payments as collateral. But Avignone said he was unable to secure financing because of the lien that the prior management company had placed on the incoming payments.
Seiling Regional Medical Center
Location: Seiling in northwest Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 18
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by Shawnee, Oklahoma-based Cohesive Healthcare Management and Consulting.
Financial status in 2019:
Total assets: $1.2 million
Total: $2.7 million
Net income: -$85,956
Management history and finances: Town leaders say the hospital's former management firm Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma entered into contracts and paid for services that were not approved by the board. The company hired an accounting firm for nearly $100,000 despite stating that it had a financial expert on staff that would be available as part of its contract with the town. It signed a five-year pharmacy services contract for up to $4,500 a month, plus the cost of drugs. And it entered into another contract for medical billing software that town leaders say they didn't approve. Officials in Seiling said they learned of the contracts when bills began appearing on the hospital's monthly financial reports. Seiling ended its relationship with Alliance in February 2019. Cohesive Healthcare has since taken over management of the hospital.
Company response: Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma did not respond to written questions about its management of the Seiling hospital. The company has denied any wrongdoing in its management of three Oklahoma hospitals.
Sayre Community Hospital
Location: Sayre in western Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 31
Status: Closed in August 2018.
Financial status: Financial information is not available for the hospital.
Management history and finances: The chronically troubled hospital, which closed in 2016, was revived the following year by SMH Acquisition, an Oklahoma-based management company. It continued to struggle financially. The company failed to pay at least three employees' health and dental insurance premiums despite deducting them from paychecks, according to a ruling on wage claims by the Oklahoma Department of Labor. The hospital landed in court for unpaid bills and was sold to pay creditors in May 2018. Another management company, Synergic Resource Partners, purchased the hospital only to abruptly close the facility three months later.
Company response: In an email, Robert Hicks, the owner of SMH Acquisition, said that despite the Oklahoma Department of Labor ruling that his company was responsible for unpaid insurance, he was no longer in charge of the hospital at the time. Swim, the CEO of Synergic Resource Partners, declined interview requests. Swim said he would only answer The Frontier and ProPublica's questions on the condition of anonymity. The news organizations declined.
Mangum Regional Medical Center
Location: Mangum in southwest Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 18
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by Cohesive Healthcare Management and Consulting.
Financial status in 2018:
Total assets: $5.8 million
Total liabilities: $11.3 million
Net income: -$1.8 million
Management history and finances: Officials in the town of Mangum allege in an ongoing lawsuit that Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma enriched itself and other companies controlled by its owners at the hospital's expense. The town's hospital board fired Alliance in December 2018. In a letter severing the relationship, the board said the company repeatedly breached its management agreement, citing a decision to use a $4 million cost reimbursement from the federal government to pay down the line of credit without the board's consent. It highlighted payments to companies owned by Alliance's partners. The hospital now owes Medicare a projected $3.5 million and is being sued by a bank for $1.8 million to repay the line of credit. The lawsuit is also ongoing. Cohesive Healthcare has since taken over management of the hospital.
Company response: Alliance Health Southwest Oklahoma has denied wronging. Avignone, the company's CEO, said Alliance saved the hospital from closing.
Carnegie Tri-County Municipal Hospital
Location: Carnegie in western Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 17
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by Cohesive Healthcare Management and Consulting.
Financial status in 2019:
Total assets: $7.2 million
Total liabilities: $20.6 million
Net income: $2.4 million.
Management history and financial situation: The Carnegie hospital board and the Oklahoma City-based First Physicians Capital Group cut ties in 2017. That year, state inspectors found violations of patient care so severe that they determined the facility no longer met the minimum requirements to receive Medicare payments. Violations included a lack of security and monitoring for psychiatric patients in the emergency room and failing to provide adequate nursing staff. Cohesive Healthcare has since taken over management of the hospital.
Company response: First Physicians did not respond to interview requests.
Newman Memorial Hospital
Location: Shattuck in northwest Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 25
Status: Open. The hospital board hired a full-time CEO instead of another private management company.
Financial status in 2018:
Total assets: $11.9 million
Total liabilities: $10.9 million
Net income: -$3 million
Management history and financial situation: Under Illinois-based People's Choice Hospital, a management company, Newman Memorial falsely claimed that it was performing a large number of blood and urine tests to collect more than $21 million in payments, according to allegations made by the insurer Aetna in an ongoing federal lawsuit. Between January 2016 and April 2017, the hospital billed the insurer for thousands of samples tested at laboratories in other parts of the country, the lawsuit claims. The strategy allowed the hospital to collect $2,250 per test instead of the standard $120 that the insurer would normally pay larger facilities. The town's hospital board fired People's Choice in 2017 and sued the company for fraud and breach of contract because of the lab billing. The company and the hospital settled out of court in 2018. The terms of the settlement were not made public.
Company response: Attempts to reach a representative for People's Choice were unsuccessful. In response to the lawsuit, the company denied the allegations from Aetna, stating that it saved the hospital from bankruptcy.
Cimarron Memorial Hospital
Location: Boise City in Oklahoma's Panhandle
Number of hospital beds: 25
Status: Open. The hospital board hired a full-time CEO instead of another private management company.
Financial status in 2018:
Total assets: $1.2 million
Total liabilities: $3 million
Net income: -$493,157
Management history and financial situation: Austin, Texas-based NewLight Healthcare ran the hospital for about a decade before deciding in January to end its relationship with the county. In 2017, the hospital increased lab testing to bring in more money, but the insurers questioned a high volume of charges and halted payments. To save money, the hospital stopped providing health insurance for nurses and other employees in December 2018. The hospital owed NewLight more than $1 million from deferred management fees as of February 2020. It has since paid its debt to the company, according to hospital officials.
Company response: NewLight Healthcare did not answer detailed questions from The Frontier and ProPublica. Instead, it responded with a statement: "NewLight Healthcare, LLC has consistently worked alongside community leaders, providers, state associations, and other leaders to attempt to create new models and programs that will improve the business climate for rural hospitals. Ultimately, in order to maintain quality rural healthcare, leaders in government will need to make additional funding sources available to rural hospitals."
Haskell County Community Hospital
Location: Stigler in southeast Oklahoma
Number of beds: 25
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by Indiana-based Boa Vida Healthcare.
Financial status in 2019:
Total assets: $6.3 million
Total liabilities: $3.8 million
Net income: -$2.4 million
Management history and financial situation: The hospital laid off about 85% of its staff last year, leaving it with only eight nurses, who double as the cleaning crew. The cuts were part of an effort to make the hospital more appealing to buyers. Haskell County was among four Oklahoma hospitals that entered bankruptcy in 2019 after insurance companies stopped reimbursing for laboratory tests that they alleged were part of a billing scheme conceived by EmpowerHMS, the management company that ran the hospitals. Blue Cross Blue Shield of Oklahoma booted Empower hospitals from its network in 2018 after allegations of fraud against the company. While under the management of Empower, the hospital stopped paying employee salaries and health benefits, according to testimony at a state hearing in November 2019. During the hearing, Haskell hospital employees questioned why no one was held responsible for their lost wages, benefits and money that was supposed to be paid into employee retirement plans.
Company response: Attempts to reach a representative for Empower were unsuccessful. The company has denied allegations of wrongdoing in its response to a federal lawsuit filed by insurance companies.
Drumright Regional Hospital
Location: Drumright in northeast Oklahoma
Number of beds: 15
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by Missouri-based Rural Hospital Group.
Financial status in 2018:
Total assets: $12.1 million
Total liabilities: $13.7 million
Net income: -$821,484
Management history and financial situation: In February 2019, a state court judge appointed a representative to oversee spending at the hospital. The hospital, one of four in Oklahoma that filed for bankruptcy in 2019 under the management of EmpowerHMS, lacked money to purchase medicine and supplies. It was getting toilet paper from the local Fire Department, according to court documents. Insurers flagged increased laboratory for blood and urine tests as possible fraud at Empower hospitals.
Company response: Attempts to reach a representative for Empower were unsuccessful. The company has denied allegations of wrongdoing in its response to a federal lawsuit filed by insurance companies.
Fairfax Community Hospital
Location: Fairfax in northeast Oklahoma
Number of beds: 15
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by First Physicians Capital Group.
Financial status in 2019:
Total assets: $1.2 million
Total liabilities: $3.6 million
Net income: -$6.7 million
Management history and financial situation: After the hospital entered bankruptcy in March 2019, a skeleton crew of nurses worked without pay to staff the emergency room, according to Donna Renfro, the former chief nursing officer. Not doing so could have put the hospital at risk of losing its operating license under state law. The hospital, one of four in Oklahoma run by EmpowerHMS, ran out of money after insurance companies accused the company of fraud. Empower sought reimbursements for blood and urine tests that were not performed at the hospitals the company managed, insurance companies allege in a federal lawsuit.
Company response: Attempts to reach a representative for the Empower group were unsuccessful. The company has denied allegations of wrongdoing in its response to a federal lawsuit filed by insurance companies.
Prague Community Hospital
Location: Prague in eastern Oklahoma
Number of hospital beds: 25
Status: Open. The hospital is currently managed by Cohesive Healthcare Management and Consulting.
Financial status in 2019:
Total assets: $8.2 million
Total liabilities: $3.7 million
Net income: -$812,868
Management history and financial situation: The hospital was forced to rely on food donations to feed its patients in January 2019 after Empower stopped paying its bills, according to news reports. The hospital and three others in Oklahoma run by Empower entered bankruptcy in 2019 when insurers accused the company of a lab billing scheme that charged for blood and urine tests performed elsewhere. Cohesive Healthcare has since taken over management of the hospital.
Company response: Attempts to reach a representative for the company were unsuccessful. The company has denied allegations of wrongdoing in its response to a federal lawsuit filed by insurance companies.
The federal government and states have fueled an unregulated, chaotic market for masks ruled by oddballs, ganjapreneurs and a shadowy network of investors.
This story was first published on Monday, June 1, 2020 in ProPublica.
It was 10 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I was watching footage of secret stockpiles of N95 masks, so-called proof-of-life videos sent to me by strangers, when Tim, the juicer salesman, called.
"My name is Tim, and I heard you're looking into VPL," the man said in a squeaky, nervous timbre. "I distanced myself from the company because they weren't delivering what they said."
A few hours earlier, I had called the owner of VPL Medical LLC, a company outside Los Angeles that had gotten a $6.4 million contract from the Department of Veterans Affairs to supply 8 million three-ply surgical masks to hospitals dealing with the COVID-19 crisis. My call freaked them out, Tim said, and someone at the company had passed my number along to him.
What was his interest in the story, I asked.
"I went and got myself $8,000 in cash. I was on my way with the money in a briefcase…," he began.
I had called VPL because records showed the company incorporated just four days before it won the VA deal, and it went on to win another $14.5 million no-bid contract the next day from the federal office in charge of the national stockpile. Its new website featured a photo of the sort of "ear loop" mask the federal government has since branded as ineffective Chinese knockoffs. The moniker stands for Viral Protection Labs, but the labs exist only in the stock art chosen for the website.
Before forming the company to exclusively sell medical supplies, VPL's owner operated Rock On IT, a company specializing in search engine optimization and digital marketing. Both companies were registered to the same unit in an office park in Rancho Cucamonga, about an hour from LA.
Tim, whose last name is Zelonka, said he had driven halfway to that office park from West Hollywood with his briefcase stuffed with cash when his deal to buy a relatively small amount of masks from VPL fell through. He said he thought perhaps he had asked too many questions of a company representative — about where the masks were sourced, if they were kept in sanitary conditions and about the company's credentials.
"He said: 'They're not in boxes. They're in Ziploc bags,'" Zelonka said, recounting his conversation with VPL's representative. "And I said: 'That's not what you're advertising. You're advertising made in the U.S.A. and in sealed packaging.'"
That's when Zelonka said the deal was abruptly canceled by the representative, whom I'd later learn was sued by the Federal Trade Commission in 2018 for a robocalling scheme that involved bogus smoking cessation treatments and sexual performance enhancement pills.
VPL's owner, Bobby Bedi, said his company has delivered on its contracts and is providing good products during an unprecedented crisis. He dismissed fraud allegations against him and an associate as inevitable hiccups in doing business. He also denied that Ziploc bags were used to store hismasks, which are much cheaper and less effective than N95s at stopping the spread of the virus..
"VPL does not and has not ever delivered finished goods in repackaged materials," he said.
Zelonka attempted to do business with VPL in April, as the company brokered its deal with the VA, whose massive hospital system had been overrun by the coronavirus pandemic. In desperate need of supplies, the VA has signed more contracts without competitive bidding than any agency other than the federal government's central contracting office.
Like so many in the emerging underground mask business, Zelonka had no background in the medical supply chain. He handled U.S. distribution for a Spanish commercial juicer company, whose equipment can hold dozens of whole oranges and allows users to make custom selections and watch the machine pluck, press and pound out juice. He had been furloughed, so he thought maybe he could make money as a PPE broker, connecting buyers to sellers on a black market fueled by desperation and opportunism, a Wild West occupied by oddballs, ganjapreneurs and a shadowy network of investors.
Zelonka's plan was more novel than the dozens I had heard in recent weeks from other brokers over meandering phone calls, cryptic Twitter messages and dispatches sent through Signal, an encrypted texting app. He hoped to sell masks, gowns and gloves for food service workers at places like Jamba Juice, which were reopening as states lifted stay-at-home orders — a cottage industry within a cottage industry.
He wanted to make a modest profit, Zelonka said, while remaining ethical.
He said he'd been meeting other mask suppliers, working out cash deals, and that he'd be happy to show me his world. He said he might set up another meeting with VPL to get a look at its product.
"If you come out to LA," Zelonka said, "I can show you."
I bought a ticket the next day.
'Like Stumbling Into the Drug Business'
My descent into the pandemic PPE trade began with the story of one federal contractor whose failed attempt to find and sell N95 masks in a $34.5 million deal with the VA involved a private jet and the former attorney general of Alabama. The contract was ultimately canceled and referred to the inspector general for investigation.
After the story ran and the federal inquiry began, my social media and email inboxes exploded with messages from people claiming to have giant stockpiles of masks or to know a guy who knows a guy with a stockpile.
Some called me directly, such as a man near Seattle, to ask if I could connect them with the top brass at, say, the Federal Emergency Management Agency. (I told this person that journalists don't help people with their business dealings, and when I followed up with a series of questions about his alleged stockpile, he cut short the call.)
In reporting on the first VA contractor, I was intrigued and a little tickled that he had been sent a proof-of-life video, cellphone footage that purported to show millions of masks ready to be shipped once the money was wired. It seemed like something out of a spy movie, but the more I talked to people in this world the clearer it became that this was how deals were actually being done.
Bored in my apartment after many weeks of isolation, I began to use the same jargon as insiders when responding to mask entrepreneurs: "Can you show me proof of life?"
On Twitter, a South African sent me a video, apparently shot in China, of boxes of supposed KN95s, the Chinese version of the N95s, which filter out 95% of particles including those that could carry the new coronavirus. A woman held a sheet of paper with his name on it over the boxes to show ownership. Another solicitation included a date-stamped video of a man loading boxes onto a truck.
"Yes my contact has proof of life...I will connect you with my guy," one contact told me through a Twitter direct message.
The solicitations went on and on.
The backdrop was clear: Overnight, a global scarcity of masks created an unregulated market that grew as the Trump administration left states and hospitals to fend for themselves in bidding wars that drove up prices. Governors including New York's Andrew Cuomo implored anyone who had stock or could manufacture PPE to reach out. Meanwhile, Trump's executive branch offered what seemed more like bounties than contracts to spur hundreds of untested companies to go out and find scarce masks and respirators, paying as much as six times the manufacturer's list price to those with the right connections.
"It's like stumbling into the drug business," said one broker, Rick B., who asked that his last name be withheld so he could talk freely about his business. Using public records, I independently confirmed his name and business associations.
"You start out as a guy on the corner holding a little bit of product, and the next thing you know, you're making calls and connecting people."
Rick B. said he was a comedy writer in California and was in the process of setting up a marijuana dispensary when COVID-19 scuttled his plans. Through his marijuana business, he had made contacts with some medical suppliers, who suggested that he, like countless other small business owners, pivot his business to focus on PPE.
"The ones that got in early," he said. "Those guys made just stupid amounts of money."
He and others described to me a "daisy chain" of middlemen who were getting rich off this pandemic, flipping masks from one private buyer to the next. The transactions resemble a real estate deal: A broker knows a seller of masks; another broker knows a buyer of masks. The two brokers set up the deal and each takes a commission, a percentage off the final unit price. And there's a lot of room for profit. One model of N95 respirator, made by 3M, lists for about $1.27 per mask, yet FEMA agreed to pay one inexperienced contractor $7 per mask.
"There are scandalous brokers out there. There are people that just make me want to take a Silkwood shower at the end of the day," Rick B. said, referring to the classic film about radiation exposure. "There are brokers out there who are buying at $3 and marking it up to $6 or $7."
Deals are usually negotiated through WhatsApp, he said, often only with first names divulged. After they set up the business relationship, the brokers collect commissions on any subsequent deal, like royalties: "On a 300 million 3M mask deal, that deal might be 1 or 2 cents a mask. It's a big deal," he said, or a $3 million to $6 million commission just for brokering the deal.
"That's the kind of money that's changing hands," he said. "There's some billionaires with a B getting involved."
In a few well publicized cases, the U.S. Justice Department has brought price gouging charges, and 3M has sued distributors who were hiking up PPE costs.
But the potential corruption runs deeper, importers and brokers told me. Businesses or investors with PPE can sell to another private buyer with no scrutiny at prices that might be considered obvious price gouging if they were sold directly to a government agency. One stockpile can change hands several times, with a little profit for brokers and traders at each step.
If an end buyer, such as a hospital, is paying $4.50 or more per mask, Rick B. said, "that usually means it's a broker chain involved. It's a broker who knows a broker who knows a broker. 'I know a guy, and I'm going to be having Jerry give you a call, and put me in for a dime.' That means 10 cents a mask."
The harm is measured not just in the higher price hospitals and government agencies eventually pay, but in time wasted as health workers wait for gear that could mean the difference between life and death.
Touchdown in LA
We were somewhere on the edge of Culver City heading for the garment district when the trip's absurdity began to dawn on me.
I was still stressed from the early morning commercial flight, six hours of sharing air and space with too many people, some of whom took off their masks when flight attendants weren't near.
Zelonka, full of energy, wore a blue polo shirt, retro amber gradient aviator sunglasses and a yellow cloth mask as he navigated his Infiniti through unusually sparse traffic on I-10. As he put it, he is nearly 50, but he's an "LA 50," which he estimated appears 15 years younger than elsewhere.
He had been sharing his various strange conversations with mask suppliers, detailing how they didn't make sense, or there was no product, or the supplier couldn't answer basic questions.
"It would be like if you went to buy a gallon of milk and you asked: 'Is it whole milk or skim milk?' And they didn't know the difference."
Then it occured to me — had he actually purchased any masks?
"I have purchased none because everyone's full of shit," he said.
Had he made any money at all yet?
"Nope."
We arrived at the garment district, an odd detour from our stated mission of looking into brokers and shady deals.
Once there, Scott Wilson, owner of Ustrive Manufacturing, showed how he had transformed his small organic T-shirt factory into a humming PPE production line. The company's masks were made of cotton and spandex and were being sold as a nonmedical protection for Kaiser Permanente.
Zelonka had seen this company featured on the local news and just showed up the next day to introduce himself. In LA, where masks are legally required, it wouldn't hurt to know a producer, he said.
As we drove away, Zelonka piqued my interest with a comment about a venture capitalist in Florida who claimed to have connections with 3M and was interested in sinking a billion — with a "B" — or so into the mask trade.
Zelonka played back for me some of a recorded video conference call.
"We've got several billion dollars sitting in escrow to procure product right now, and we need it yesterday," said the man on the phone. "We had no idea what we were doing, to be honest with you."
Zelonka gave me a misspelled version of the guy's name and said he was a venture capitalist working for a company called something like "Oasis."
This potential deal was quite an escalation from $8,000 in a briefcase. I asked Zelonka, Is this investor legitimate? He said that he wasn't sure, but that he was working to secure a pipeline for masks from a source in Mexico.
"I think he's looking for a credible source that isn't 3M that he could use to supply the federal government with masks."
Zelonka seemed uneasy but intrigued, as if grappling with a moral dilemma: Can one make a profit off a global crisis without becoming a vulture, and where is the line?
"Then I would be what you're investigating," Zelonka joked. "A profiteer."
"There Was No Time for Anybody to Think"
Bedi, the VPL owner I spoke with, has operated numerous California businesses and been subject to multiple tax liens and about a dozen civil lawsuits, including allegations of fraud, lease manipulation and breach of contract.
Last summer, he was sued by a tenant who operated a restaurant in a gas station owned and then sold by Bedi's company. In court records, the tenant accuses Bedi's company of providing a forged lease to the gas station purchaser, "whiting out" and altering a date to effectively evict the tenant two years early. When the new owners tried to kick out the restaurant owner, all three parties ended up in an ongoing lawsuit.
"I have been an active part of the business community for many years and thru some 20 years of business experience have had issues we all face as part of being an active business owner," Bedi said in an email.
When I first talked with Bedi, he said his $6.4 million deal with the VA was going off without a hitch. They were all brought in from China, he said, though he hopes to start manufacturing masks in the U.S. this summer. A spokeswoman for the VA said VPL has delivered all its masks in accordance with the contract.
What he couldn't tell me was how his brand-new company managed to get such a big deal with the federal government with no competitive bidding, as has become customary in the COVID-19 era. As ProPublica previously reported, the federal government has signed multimillion-dollar deals with many companies that popped up overnight, including one deal to provide masks that was given to a former Trump aide. But VPL was far from the Beltway, seemingly obscure, and this deal appeared to be instrumental in growing the company, which recently issued press releases saying it will open two U.S. PPE manufacturing facilities. In all, the federal government awarded VPL nearly $21 million within its first week of existence, federal data and California business filings show.
VPL has yet to deliver a shipment of masks to the national stockpile overseen by the Department of Health and Human Services. "HHS has taken appropriate steps available under Federal Acquisition Regulations to request the company provide assurance that it will uphold its contractual obligations as we consider our options moving forward," said Stephanie Bialek, spokeswoman for the Strategic National Stockpile.
The Trump administration has promised at least $1.8 billion to 335 first-time contractors, often without competitive bidding or thorough vetting of their backgrounds.
Bedi said he couldn't recall how his company got their contracts. "The important thing is right now there is a global pandemic. There is a shortage of masks, and we are fulfilling it on time," he said.
"It all happened quickly," Bedi added. "There was no time for anybody to think."
Bedi said he would talk with his employees to figure out how his company got the deal, but when I called back at our arranged time, he hung up.
That's all I knew when I met Zelonka the next day, Friday, in a Walmart parking lot, where he guzzled a Monster Energy drink — "my last nonalcoholic drink of the weekend," he joked — as he prepared to walk into VPL's office with a reporter in tow.
Zelonka had previously told me he was working out a time to meet with a VPL representative, Jason Cardiff, to examine the firm's product, this time for far more effective KN95 masks the company advertised. Bedi confirmed Cardiff works for VPL as a "consultant."
Cardiff's business history offers a good read. In 2018, the Federal Trade Commission sued to shut down Cardiff and a company he and his wife operated, describing it as a pyramid scheme that involved robocalling people and making "false and unsubstantiated claims for dissolvable film strips advertised for smoking cessation, weight loss, and male sexual performance."
A federal court issued an injunction, shutting down the Cardiffs' business and freezing their assets. But in March of this year, Cardiff was found in contempt of court for, among other things, hiding 1.5 million Canadian dollars in assets.
The FTC alleged that Cardiff was funding a lavish lifestyle through an account he opened in his 90-year-old father's name. "The Cardiffs are spending nearly $17,000 per month," court records state. "On Bentley, Porsche, and Range Rover lease payments, private elementary school tuition, restaurants, phone and cable bills, salons and spas, pet grooming, a 5-star hotel in New York City, music lessons, taekwondo lessons, ride shares, movie theaters, and other lavish expenditures."
At the same time, the couple stopped paying the $12,000 a month mortgage on their home and "strikingly," the FTC told the court, the secret bank account was not paying rent for Cardiff's father's retirement home.
Cardiff didn't provide comment, but Bedi defended him, suggesting the FTC was the fraud.
"We are pleased to have Mr. Cardiff's expertise in manufacturing and logistics, and we are aware of the fraud that the Federal Trade Commission has committed on him," Bedi wrote in an email, noting that Cardiff is working to bring the company's U.S. production online.
I was hoping to meet Cardiff. But Zelonka's exchanges with Cardiff had gone cold (Zelonka would later tell me he had told several people close to the company that he was working with a reporter, which might have scared people away). There was no briefcase. No meeting time. No element of surprise.
As someone who's knocked on countless doors with nothing but a hunch and a prayer, I believe all doomed reporting missions should be seen through to their end. Besides, Zelonka's pluck was entertaining, and I'd come all this way, so we went, two guys in masks, one zapped on Monster Energy and the other on Starbucks double espresso, roaming an empty office park in Rancho Cucamonga as the world was falling apart.
We found the door. The sign said "Rock On IT." He knocked. No one answered. We waited in the running car. He called the number he had for Cardiff, and the man who picked up said he was in a meeting and had to hang up.
"Well," Zelonka said as we drove solemnly back to the Walmart. "You can go home with a suntan."
With VPL in his rearview, Zelonka became increasingly focused on his potential partnership with the venture capitalist in Florida, with whom he had signed a nondisclosure agreement, standard fare among PPE dealers.
"This is somebody who says they have a billion cash," he said.
Zelonka said he planned to meet with the investor while on a work trip to Texas.
The Mystery Investor
When I returned to Washington, D.C., I began trying to track down Jason Cardiff. When I called the number Zelonka had given me, the man on the other line said he wasn't Jason and had no affiliation with VPL. Cardiff also did not respond to questions sent via text and a LinkedIn message.
On Tuesday, Zelonka texted me and said his investor "is looking to spend $1.8 billion on 3M model" at a cost of $6.25 each (they list for about $1.27).
"Anyway," he continued. "I'm meeting him in Texas on Wednesday, and if the Mexican supplier works out I'm going to visit them the following day."
I called the firm and investor that Zelonka named but could not confirm any connection between him and the company.
As we prepared to publish this story, I connected with Zelonka, who said he was in Dallas to show clients how to sanitize their high-end juicers. The prospect of being the star in a story about PPE gambling had soured on him. Something in his tone had changed.
He's not in the PPE racket, he said, and never really was. He's just focusing on juicers now, he said.
Three times, I asked if he was still going into business with the alleged investor to buy and sell masks.
"I'm not going to comment on anything because I'm not sure how that will go," he said.
I reminded him of our conversations about billion-dollar investors, the Mexican supplier and his aspirations to break into the business.
"You're breaking up," he said. "I can't hear you."
Opioid-related deaths in Cook County have doubled since this time last year, and similar increases are happening across the country. “If you’re alone, there’s nobody to give you the Narcan,” said one coroner.
This story was first published on Saturday, May 30, 2020 in ProPublica.
As COVID-19 kills thousands in Chicago and across Illinois, the opioid epidemic has intensified its own deadly siege away from the spotlight, engulfing one public health crisis inside another.
More than twice as many people have died or are suspected to have died of opioid overdoses in the first five months of the year in Cook County, when compared with the same period last year, according to a ProPublica Illinois analysis of medical examiner’s office death records. There have been at least 924 confirmed or suspected overdose deaths so far in 2020; there were 461 at this time last year. And much like the coronavirus outbreak, the opioid epidemic has disproportionately affected African Americans on Chicago’s West and South Sides.
Statewide, opioid deaths also are outpacing 2019 numbers, largely due to the increase in Cook County.
The deadly surge comes at what was supposed to be a turning point for Illinois. A 2017 state action plan from then-Gov. Bruce Rauner vowed to halt the “explosive growth” of opioid deaths and reduce the projected number of opioid-related deaths this year by a third.
Based on the number of overdose deaths so far in Cook County alone, it’s highly unlikely the state can meet that goal.
While the spike in deaths began several months before the first known case of the coronavirus appeared in Illinois, COVID-19 appears to be exacerbating the crisis.
“This is going to make it so much worse,” said Kathleen Kane-Willis, a researcher with the Chicago Urban League who has studied the opioid epidemic for more than a decade, adding that the true impact of the pandemic on drug overdoses likely won’t be known for some time.
“It’s going to wear on people. It’s going to make them more anxious and depressed,” she said. “Being thrust into poverty is such a stressor, and people do turn to substances to get through that stress.”
The rise in opioid-related deaths in Cook County echoes a pattern seen in other areas of the country, from Milwaukee to Memphis and in Virginia and western New York. The American Medical Association recently sounded an alarm, noting news reports from 28 states on increases in opioid-induced overdoses and issuing a series of recommendations to state governments.
Coroners in at least nine Illinois counties — ranging from Lake County north of Chicago to Peoria County in central Illinois and Madison County near St. Louis — have noted increases, though the number of overdose deaths is far lower than in Cook County. DuPage County Coroner Dr. Richard Jorgensen said he was so startled this month to see 22 overdose deaths in three weeks that he called local rehabilitation clinics and advocates to see if they could explain what was happening.
“They’ve been seeing the same thing — a lot of people calling with problems, having trouble staying sober, having relapses,” said Jorgensen, who worries that more people are using drugs alone because of the state’s stay-at-home order. “If you’re alone, there’s nobody to give you the Narcan,” he said, referring to the drug that can reverse overdoses. “That’s a problem.”
A Complicating Factor
Even before the pandemic hit, state officials, medical experts and drug recovery workers began to notice an increase in overdoses. State officials said they issued an alert in January warning the public about an increase in opioid-related overdoses.
A sustained climb in the number of opioid-related deaths over the previous year began in November, according to a ProPublica Illinois analysis of data from the Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office.
An increase in more dangerous blends of opioids hitting Cook County, including drugs laced with fentanyl and other synthetic additives, is likely partially to blame, several experts and city and state officials said.
“One thing we know for sure: The violent drug cartels and distributors have not stopped trafficking deadly fentanyl,” Robert Bell, the special agent in charge of the Chicago Field Division of the Drug Enforcement Administration, said in a statement. “The recent spike of overdose deaths emphasizes that the opioid and fentanyl epidemic has not paused — in fact, it has intensified in many places.”
In Cook County, fentanyl is listed as one of the primary causes of death in 81% of the confirmed opioid-related fatalities this year, up from 74% last year, according to ProPublica Illinois’ analysis. The majority of the cases involve fentanyl combined with other substances, such as heroin.
Still, the sheer number of opioid-related fatalities in Cook County this year has left some experts disheartened. As of Friday, the medical examiner’s office had confirmed nearly 500 deaths involving opioids. An additional 614 deaths are still under investigation, typically pending toxicology results. Of those, some 70% to 80% are expected to come back positive for opioids, according to the county’s chief medical examiner, Dr. Ponni Arunkumar. (Pathologists often ask for toxicology screenings when there is evidence of an overdose, such as white powder near the body or a needle in the arm, a spokeswoman for the medical examiner’s office said.)
That projection would put the year’s total at at least 924, more than double the number in the first five months of 2019.
“Oh, goodness. That’s insane,” said Dr. Steven Aks, an emergency room physician at John H. Stroger Jr. Hospital of Cook County and chief of toxicology for Cook County Health, when told about the increase. “This is something that we were very nervous about when the pandemic hit.”
In addition to the rise in deaths, state officials say there have been increases in nonfatal overdoses involving opioids in the first four months of this year. In February, the numbers jumped by more two-thirds, to 2,047 when compared with the average over the previous three Februaries. In Chicago, emergency calls related to overdoses were up by more than a third from January through mid-April this year compared with the same period in 2019, according to an analysis of police and fire department call data.
Dani Kirby, director of the division of substance use prevention and recovery for the state’s Department of Human Services, said in a statement that COVID-19 has complicated both the state’s response to the overdose crisis and the lives of those who use drugs.
“The stress of unemployment, isolation, and general uncertainty are all risk factors for a return to substance use or an escalation of existing patterns of use,” Kirby said. “There is an additional concern that, due to the risk of exposure to COVID-19, people may be more reluctant to call 911 or go to a hospital when an overdose occurs.”
Some overdose prevention strategies “directly contradict” strategies that are meant to prevent the spread of COVID-19, she added.
“We know that human connection is a fundamental element of service delivery — whether a program is linking someone to harm reduction supplies (clean syringes, naloxone, safer smoking supplies, etc) or providing treatment and recovery services — and COVID-19 makes it more difficult for people to access these services,” Kirby said in the statement. Naloxone is an overdose-reversal drug.
Matthew Richards, deputy commissioner of behavioral health for the Chicago Department of Public Health, echoed those challenges. “Sometimes persons that are at highest risk for overdoses, part of the effort is really meeting people where they are in community with peer services or community health educators and building rapport,” he said. “What that looks like right now in terms of social distancing and whatnot is really complicated.”
Some Chicago-based programs that serve people who use drugs have had to scale back or shutter services in the wake of the pandemic, in part to protect older workers who may be more vulnerable to the coronavirus. Officials at other programs, on the other hand, said they have been able to meet an increase in demands for some services, such as naloxone, or medical outreach.
The pandemic has also meant that many people who rely on panhandling to make money and buy drugs are unable to do so now, because so many downtown office workers are now working from home, said Andrew Wojda, who works on a street medicine outreach team for The Night Ministry, a Chicago-based organization that works with the homeless.
This decreases their drug tolerance, making them more vulnerable to an overdose when they use again. “When they do get some cash, then they’re going back to using however much they were using a few days ago,” Wojda said. “But within three days, their tolerance can go down. It doesn’t really take much time at all for that to start being a much riskier game they’re playing.”
A Statewide Problem
Researchers and advocates said they are worried about the spread of the coronavirus among drug users and whether deaths involving both opioids and COVID-19 are being adequately tracked. Drug users often have comorbidities — underlying medical conditions — that make them more vulnerable to contracting the coronavirus. It might be hard to distinguish virus-like symptoms from those of withdrawal, researchers said.
So far only four people whose deaths were related to opioids also tested positive for the coronavirus, according to data from the Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office. The office said it has not found a direct correlation between opioids and the coronavirus.
A spokeswoman for the office said they do not test every body for COVID-19. Instead, the body is tested if the person is suspected to have contracted the virus but was not tested at a hospital or if the office’s investigators find out the person displayed symptoms or was exposed to someone who had contracted the virus.
In suburban Lake County, where the coroner, Dr. Howard Cooper, said all bodies are tested for COVID-19 as a safety measure and to let families know if their loved one had the disease, only one of the 43 confirmed or suspected overdose deaths so far this year has also tested positive for the coronavirus. The county also has experienced a rise in fatal overdoses, which Cooper said totaled 23 this time last year.
Even in counties that haven’t seen a rise or are seeing modest increases of one or two deaths, coroners remain concerned. With 14 confirmed or suspected overdose deaths this year, Kane County is up by only two compared with the same time last year, but COVID-19 may upend things, said Coroner Rob Russell.
“Maybe we haven’t seen it yet,” he added. “Maybe it’s coming.”
In Peoria County, Coroner Jamie Harwood said it has been tough to witness a rise in overdoses because it represents a reverse of hard-won progress. From January to April of 2018, the county saw 31 overdose deaths. In 2019, that number dropped to six, which he attributes to increased naloxone distribution, offering fentanyl test strips and providing clean needles for exchange. But now, with this latest spike, the county is almost double 2019’s numbers for the same time with 11 overdose deaths this year.
“It’s really hard to see it go up because you know that there’s a kid left without a parent, a mom left without a daughter or a son,” Harwood said.
A Hopeful Goal
This was the year that opioid-related deaths were supposed to drop significantly in Illinois. A 2017 state action plan developed under Rauner outlined steps to reduce the estimated death toll by one-third, from a projected 2,700 to about 1,800 in 2020.
Statewide opioid-related deaths had been on the decline, from 2,202 in 2017 to 2,167 in 2018. It was the first decrease in overdose deaths among Illinois residents in five years. The numbers fell again last year to 2,107, state officials said.
The drop in 2018 was largely due to a decrease in opioid-related deaths for white residents. But those deaths rose for African Americans, who saw a 9% increase, and to a lesser extent for Latino residents, who saw a 4% increase, state figures show, resulting in what a 2019 state report called a “persistent disparity.”
The data on the most recent deaths in Cook County magnify the disparities. African Americans make up more than half the confirmed opioid-related deaths so far this year, even though they make up less than a quarter of county residents.
This trend is also happening nationally: One recent study showed that whites were the only group that saw a decline in drug-induced deaths in 2018.
Kane-Willis, who co-authored a 2017 report on the impact of the opioid epidemic on African Americans and is preparing to publish a follow-up paper, said black drug users have higher overdose mortality rates for many of the same reasons they’re more likely to die from COVID-19: poverty, less access to effective medical treatment and more health problems.
A spokeswoman for Gov. J.B. Pritzker’s office said the administration is “continuing to work toward” the action plan’s goals and highlighted initiatives this year to combat the overdose crisis with an emphasis on social and racial equity.
In January, Pritzker issued an executive order to promote equitable prevention and treatment access, as well as earmarking $4.1 million to expand opioid-related services across the state. Some of that money is going to a state Rapid Deployment Project that teams with local health departments to target specific communities that have seen spikes in overdoses, officials said.
In response to the coronavirus pandemic, Illinois has eased up regulations to allow patients to take home longer-lasting supplies of methadone, residential facilities are taking extra measures to protect residents and staff, and community organizations are ensuring patients have better access to naloxone, Kirby said.
The city of Chicago, meanwhile, said it’s studying data on overdoses to identify demographic and geographic patterns and determine which neighborhoods need the most resources, including naloxone, syringe exchanges and community health education, Richards said. The city has already increased funding for naloxone distribution, he said, and in June plans to start issuing monthly reports showing year-to-date trends.
The goal, he said, is to create a robust response to the epidemic.
“I don’t want to underestimate the challenge, but I also don’t want to underestimate the power of using data to fund things that work,” he said. “Our goal is to get the biggest impacts that we can possibly get. We’re talking about saving lives.”
Zach Fuentes, former deputy chief of staff to President Trump, won the contract just days after registering his company. He sold Chinese masks to the government just as federal regulators were scrutinizing foreign-made equipment.
This story was first published on Friday, May 22, 2020 in ProPublica.
A former White House aide won a $3 million federal contract to supply respirator masks to Navajo Nation hospitals in New Mexico and Arizona 11 days after he created a company to sell personal protective equipment in response to the coronavirus pandemic.
Zach Fuentes, President Donald Trump’s former deputy chief of staff, secured the deal with the Indian Health Service with limited competitive bidding and no prior federal contracting experience.
The IHS told ProPublica it has found that 247,000 of the masks delivered by Fuentes’ company — at a cost of roughly $800,000 — may be unsuitable for medical use. An additional 130,400, worth about $422,000, are not the type specified in the procurement data, the agency said.
What’s more, the masks Fuentes agreed to provide — Chinese-made KN95s — have come under intense scrutiny from U.S. regulators amid concerns that they offered inadequate protection.
“The IHS Navajo Area Office will determine if these masks will be returned,” the agency said in a statement. The agency said it is verifying Fuentes’ company’s April 8 statement to IHS that all the masks were certified by the Food and Drug Administration, and an FDA spokesperson said the agency cannot verify if the products were certified without the name of the manufacturer.
Hospitals in the Navajo Nation, which spans Utah, New Mexico and Arizona, have been desperate for protective supplies as the numbers of coronavirus infections and deaths have grown quickly. As of Friday, the Navajo Nation reported 4,434 COVID-19 cases and 147 deaths, a crisis that has prompted outcries from members of Congress and demands for increased funding.
Fuentes initiated email contact with officials at IHS, a division of the Department of Health and Human Services, the agency said. After the contact, the agency informally solicited prices from a handful of face mask providers and chose Fuentes of the six companies that responded because his firm offered the best price and terms, IHS said. Fuentes also benefited from government procurement rules favoring veteran- and minority-owned businesses, the procurement data shows.
Fuentes said political connections to the Trump White House played no role in his company’s selection. “Nobody referred me from the White House. It was nothing like that,” he said. “Emphatically no.”
The White House did not respond to a question about Fuentes’ contract.
IHS told ProPublica that Fuentes’ company reported that the masks were made in China, but the agency did not specify the manufacturer. Federal contracting records show without explanation that Fuentes refunded $250,000 to the IHS this month, and he said in an interview last week that he gave back money when he procured masks at a slightly reduced cost.
“We went back to IHS and said, ‘We were able to get this cheaper,’” Fuentes said. “We will never gouge our customers.”
Fuentes referred questions about the mask manufacturer and FDA certifications to his consultant, Sia N. Ashok, a business school classmate. In a phone interview, Ashok declined to name the manufacturer because it could violate the company’s contract, she said.
Ashok said the company lived up to the terms of its contract with IHS and has all the FDA certifications it needs in place.
“If the customer or IHS or anyone has any issues with anything, we would be more than happy to replace,” she said.
Fuentes’ contract price of $3.24 per mask is more expensive than the pre-pandemic rate of about $1 per mask, but far less than what some government entities have paid at the height of the crisis. Mask costs can vary widely depending on availability, demand, quality and exact specifications.
Fuentes is a retired Coast Guard officer and protege of former White House chief of staff John Kelly. He formerly served as Kelly’s military aide while he was secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, and Fuentes followed Kelly to the White House. In December 2018, as Kelly prepared to leave, The New York Times reported that Fuentes had told associates he planned to “hide out” in a vague role at the White House until he qualified for a Coast Guard early retirement program. Fuentes retired in January from the Coast Guard after 15 years of service. He said his retirement was for medical reasons.
He jumped into the federal contracting world in April at a time of great opportunity — and high risk. The coronavirus pandemic loosened many federal procurement rules as agencies scrambled to respond to a national emergency. But as supplies of personal protective equipment ran out and many countries restricted exports, delivering on contracts became more difficult, and agencies have wrestled with incomplete orders, cancellations and possible counterfeit goods.
N95 masks were so scarce that the FDA in April allowed the use of some Chinese masks that had not been certified by U.S. regulators. But in recent weeks, the FDA narrowed its guidance after tests indicated that some of the products were not as effective as they should be, and it tightened restrictions on the use of Chinese masks by hospital and medical personnel.
Fuentes formed Zach Fuentes LLC as the emergency regulations were evolving.
In April, the FDA authorized the use of masks made by close to 90 manufacturers in China.
But the masks made by some of those manufacturers did not pass CDC tests because they did not filter out enough fine particles. In some cases, the masks failed utterly.
This month, the FDA rescinded its authorization for the vast majority of the Chinese manufacturers, published a much smaller list of respirators made by 14 approved manufacturers and tightened the standards for evaluating Chinese masks.
Eleven federal agencies, including IHS, have reported buying either KN95 masks, or N95 masks made outside the United States, according to contract data. Of those, Fuentes’ contract with IHS is the second-largest that mentions KN95 masks specifically. The largest contract was struck by FEMA, for $3.9 million, on May 4.
Overall, IHS has spent $85.4 million to respond to COVID-19 as of May 22, signing 318 contracts with 211 vendors, according to federal procurement records. The masks provided by Fuentes went to five IHS medical facilities and to a government warehouse.
Fuentes’ new company has also received a much smaller contract from the Bureau of Prisons to provide 10,000 N95 masks for $1.31 each, according to a BOP statement to ProPublica and procurement documents.
One IHS hospital slated to receive masks from Fuentes is the Gallup Indian Medical Center in New Mexico. A doctor there, who declined to be named because he was not authorized to speak publicly, said the facility initially had a shortage of protective equipment. Conditions have improved thanks to federal purchases and donations, he said, though staffers still have to reuse masks up to five times each, he said.
“IHS facilities have sufficient quantities of N95 respirators at this time,” an agency spokesman said.
Secretaries are working as contact tracers. The person normally in charge of pet shops and tattoo parlors is monitoring nursing homes. And as the state reopens, workers worry duties will increase.
This story was first published on Friday, May 22, 2020 in ProPublica.
The beaches of the Jersey Shore are set to reopen on Friday. But in a state where nearly 11,000 people have been killed by COVID-19, the same public health system that struggled to implement widespread testing faces what could be an even larger challenge: preventing a second wave of infection that experts say is almost inevitable without coordinated, aggressive efforts.
And more than almost any state in the country, New Jersey relies on small, local health departments, which have found themselves stretched far beyond their missions by the pandemic.
In Kearny, a town of 41,000 where the coronavirus has killed more people than in eight states, the Health Department has four full-time workers. Before the pandemic, one of them, Kristine Schweitzer Budney, was responsible for dog vaccinations, tattoo parlor licensing and restaurant safety plans.
Now Budney runs the town’s contact tracing efforts, and on top of that, she is expected to closely monitor nursing homes as they implement new infection controls.
The town of Princeton had one of the state’s first “superspreading events,” a dinner party in February that would be linked to at least 15 infections. When Dr. George DiFerdinando Jr., chair of the town’s Board of Health, contacted the state for help investigating the incident, he said he was told the town was on its own. There may have been far more than 15 cases, he told ProPublica, but “without state coordination, we couldn’t get a final number.”
The structure of New Jersey’s public health system, which is made up of roughly 100 local agencies, along with the state Department of Health, has left some cities dependent on personal connections and good fortune to secure critical resources during the pandemic. The state, with 9 million residents, has far more local health departments than California or Texas. In New Jersey, some departments cover small towns and have as few as two full-time workers. Others span an entire county and have as many as 75 employees.
Like no crisis in the state’s history, the pandemic has highlighted the limitations of the patchwork system and the challenges of coordinating a response among such a disparate array of agencies.
Many of those local departments used to receive dedicated state funding. But in 2010, in the aftermath of the last recession, that state support was eliminated. Over the last decade that has meant the loss of tens of millions of dollars for the often modest budgets of local health departments.
Per capita, New Jersey ranks 31st in the nation in state funding for public health, according to a recent report by the nonprofit Trust for America’s Health, and it ranks last in grant funding from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
“Public health has been cut to the bone, and because of that, when you are faced with the pandemic, or any kind of epidemic, you know that you do not have all the staff that you need to fight it the way that you should,” said Paschal Nwako, the health officer in Camden County in the southwest part of the state, just outside Philadelphia. “We should have been prepared for this kind of public health pandemic. We prepare for emergencies. We go through training, but still, we are underfunded.”
When the pandemic hit New Jersey in March, the state health agency’s top public health job was vacant, and more than two months later, the agency is still working to hire a permanent appointee. In the interim, the job’s responsibilities have been given to the state’s chief medical examiner.
ProPublica spoke with over 30 local health directors, municipal officials and health care leaders across the state, and many of them say that in responding to the pandemic, they’ve had to carry out critical tasks, like rolling out testing and securing personal protective equipment, with little guidance or support from the state.
In some of the communities covered by smaller departments, secretaries and recreation workers have been enlisted to follow up with people who were tested, provide test results, and in positive cases, conduct contact tracing to identify and alert anyone who was connected to the infected person.
And as COVID-19 deaths in New Jersey nursing homes were mounting last month, the state delegated oversight of outbreaks in the facilities to local health agencies, saddling them with a responsibility that several said they were ill-prepared to handle.
The state has defended its response to the pandemic, and some local officials have praised the Health Department’s leadership, including Commissioner Judith Persichilli, who, along with Gov. Phil Murphy, has presided over daily briefings in Trenton, the state capital.
Other states, including Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, took a more centralized approach to contact tracing, with the states taking the lead and sharing the work with local departments. By contrast, New Jersey’s effort has been “largely a regional or local” one, said Nancy Kearney, a state Health Department spokeswoman.
Last week, as Murphy faced questions about the need to expand testing so restrictions could be relaxed for reopening, the state announced a partnership with the School of Public Health at Rutgers University to bring in more contact tracers and increase testing.
Even as New Jersey bolsters its efforts to contain the disease, officials are also beginning to scrutinize the state’s early handling of the outbreak, particularly the calamitous toll of COVID-19 on nursing homes across the state. Residents and employees in long-term care facilities account for roughly 40% of all New Jersey’s COVID deaths that have been confirmed by a lab. According to state reports, there have been outbreaks in over 500 facilities, with more than 28,000 people infected and at least 4,000 dead. This month, the Murphy administration hired a team of outside experts to evaluate the state’s nursing home regulations and oversight mechanisms.
Many local health departments have questions of their own about how the state responded to the surge in deaths in nursing homes, and in particular the surprise directive to local health departments on April 22 that they would be the primary point of contact for infection control at and inspection of long-term care facilities.
DiFerdinando of Princeton said his Health Department was blindsided by the order and didn’t have the experience or legal authority to effectively oversee the three facilities in his town, two of which have active outbreaks.
“But by this memo, you are responsible for making sure the nursing homes in your area are following guidelines,” he told ProPublica.
Dr. David Barile, medical director of the Princeton Care Center nursing home, said that when his workers started getting sick, he reached out to the local Health Department for help with staffing and acquiring protective equipment.
He did not receive assistance on either front, he said. Eventually, he sent staff to the local hardware store to buy painter jumpsuits and masks. And in the end, 18 of his 110 residents died from the virus or related complications.
Barile called the decision to task the local Health Department with overseeing nursing homes “asinine.”
Asked about such concerns, Donna Leusner, a state Health Department spokeswoman, cited the directive, saying that the state “provides guidance on surveillance and reporting and infection control,” but local departments are “required to work with the facility to ensure these recommendations are implemented” and to investigate outbreaks.
For weeks, as thousands died in New Jersey’s nursing homes, Barile wrote letters to the governor pleading for Murphy to send in the National Guard to help overwhelmed nursing homes. In one open letter on May 1, he described facilities using trash bags and raincoats as personal protective equipment. “As of today,” Barile wrote, “all you have done for our sickest, most frail population is to loosen requirements and turn on the lights so everyone can watch as cases climb, and more people die.”
The next day, a reporter asked Murphy about Barile’s letter, and within a week Murphy announced he was deploying Guard members to long-term care facilities.
This month, the state has directed nursing homes to have all staff and residents tested. But when the state had tried to get nursing home residents tested in Kearny, it did not go as planned.
On May 4, state officials informed Budney that they would be sending supplies to Kearny’s nursing homes so that they could test all residents. But when the tests arrived, there weren’t nearly enough to test everyone, she said, and some of the kits were broken or missing swabs. They also came without instructions. Budney has repeatedly called various state offices to ask for guidance, but she said that after more than a week, she’s been unable to get an answer.
Budney is troubled by the oversight duties that have fallen on her shoulders. “I don’t think I should ever have been responsible for oversight of the care facilities in that way,” she told ProPublica. “Because I didn’t have any training.”
The early weeks of the crisis in particular were marked by a lack of communication from the state, Kearny’s mayor, Alberto Santos, said. “We felt that we were on our own. It felt like I’d woken up in this Hobbesian world where there’s no structure and everyone had to figure it out for themselves.”
For critical tasks like testing and securing PPE for first responders, Kearny was left to its own devices. To get testing for all of Kearny’s residents, including the uninsured, Santos had to personally contact a corporate lab CEO.
Budney has experience investigating outbreaks like Legionella and food poisoning, but nothing of this magnitude. While she said that the state has been “incredibly supportive” with medical questions, for contact tracing, she’s spent many hours tackling bureaucratic hurdles on her own. For instance, she said that frequently, when a lab tells Kearny a patient tested positive, the lab won’t provide a phone number or address for the patient.
Some New Jersey agencies use commercial databases to track down phone numbers, and Budney has been trying to get access to one for nearly a month. Weeks after signing a contract, however, she’s still making calls to the company to be approved for access. Until then, Kearny’s contact tracers have no way to track down many of the people who have tested positive.
Many health department employees told ProPublica they were concerned that as the state reopens, the demands on their time will increase, as they have to resume normal work, like restaurant and beach inspections, while continuing to contact trace if cases spike. (Leusner said as much, in noting that local health workers who “may have been helping with contact tracing have to inspect community pools for reopening this weekend.”)
In recent days, the state has been marshaling additional resources for local health agencies. It is preparing to send 10 retired health officers to assist some of the local agencies, and it is also developing the more centralized contact tracing workforce with Rutgers. Leusner further said the state has awarded $5 million in federal emergency funds this week to the nonprofit New Jersey Association of County and City Health Officials to distribute to local departments. The state also brought in McKinsey, a corporate consulting firm, to advise on “public health infrastructure work, modeling and long-term care issues.”
Since the state funding was cut in 2010, many departments have had to reduce staffing, said John Saccenti, executive vice president of the New Jersey Local Boards of Health Association and a past president of the national organization for local health boards.
When Saccenti became involved in the national group, he saw how much local health funding varies from state to state: “I thought everyone was like New Jersey. And then I realized, ‘Oh my God, the rest of them are functional.’”
Last year, New Jersey’s Health Department announced it would send $2.3 million to local health departments for work on communicable diseases. Unlike the old funding structure, jurisdictions had to compete for grants and the money ended up going primarily to larger county departments, not smaller municipal ones.
“We haven’t up until now acknowledged that we should be giving to public health,” said state Sen. Joseph Vitale, chair of the senate’s health committee. “Without a thoughtful public health dynamic in our state, we set ourselves up for failure.”
While other hard-hit states significantly increased their testing over the last two months, New Jersey’s numbers remained relatively constant. In daily press conferences, Murphy periodically described plans to expand testing, but New Jersey actually reported more tests in the first week of April than it did in the first week of May.
Last week, New Jersey’s testing numbers increased substantially, though that came after the state changed its reporting to include more small labs.
In Hudson County, the choice to place the first testing center in the 20,000-person town of Secaucus created issues for the much more populous Jersey City. The Secaucus site was drive-thru only, which made it inaccessible for many Jersey City residents without cars. This concern was echoed by officials across the state, who told ProPublica that the state’s early emphasis on drive-thru testing created significant barriers, particularly for low-income communities.
Jersey City eventually set up testing on its own, but the city’s mayor, Steven Fulop, said the state has far more resources to deal with the pandemic.
“Absent a coordinated response from the top, municipalities have no choice,” Fulop said. “We’re doing it with glue and Scotch tape and duct tape and paper clips.”
In southern New Jersey, Camden County’s health officer, Nwako, said Camden was on its own, too. But with a single health agency servicing all 37 municipalities, he and his team of 75 workers were in a better position to battle the virus as it spread south.
“We have been doing the testing on our own,” he said. “We did not have any kind of help from the state, and I get it.” The state was tied up with outbreaks in the north, and every area was trying to adapt to the new demands of the pandemic, Nwako said. But the obligations just kept piling up.
“It was a total shock for me when I heard from the state that it was my responsibility to go into the long-term care facilities,” he said. “They didn’t call it an inspection, because technically we aren’t going in there to inspect.”
Perry Halkitis, dean of the Rutgers School of Public Health, said he has been deploying student volunteers to assist some local departments, but the fragmented public health structure has made his efforts more complicated and time-consuming.
“My challenge with the whole department of health situation in New Jersey is that there is not one central department of health leading the way,” he said.
Santos, the mayor of Kearny, said that New Jersey’s system of small health departments was built for things like geese control and periodic counts of all the dogs in the area (which was required by law until 2015).
“It seems to me that the person doing the dog census and the person fighting the worst crisis of our time should be different,” Santos told ProPublica. “That whole model needs to be rethought.”
When Crystal Holloway entered the room on the 14th floor of Northwestern Memorial Hospital to introduce herself to a new patient, Tanya Adell-O’Neal was so out of breath, Holloway remembered, she could barely speak. But she got out a few crucial words:
“I have to tell you,” Holloway, an ICU nurse, remembered Adell-O’Neal saying. “I’m a nurse myself.”
“I was like, ‘Oh, God …’” Holloway recalled. “Like, ‘I hope that she’s not critiquing me … critiquing my techniques.’ That was absolutely the first thing I thought.”
Quickly, she realized they both had larger concerns.
Adell-O’Neal, 53, has asthma and one lung, the other having been removed along with a tumor while she was a nursing student. And for 12 days in a hospital bed at Northwestern, she fought against COVID-19.
Since the coronavirus has swept through the country, nurses have been praised as heroes for their role in fighting the pandemic. But nurses who care for patients with COVID-19 have also become patients — and sometimes, casualties — themselves. The relationships nurses have with their patients who are nurses can be emotional and complicated. They can also be cathartic.
As one of the nurses who cared for Adell-O’Neal put it: “She just understood, like, what I was going through.”
Early on, as Holloway prepared to draw her patient’s blood, Adell-O’Neal reassured her: “I can sometimes be a hard stick,” Holloway remembers her saying. “If you need to stick me twice, you can.”
After a couple of tries, Holloway realized her patient was right: Her right radial artery was an easier stick than her left.
“She just made me feel so comfortable and it wasn’t even about me,” Holloway said.
Adell-O’Neal has been both a nurse and a patient for most of her life. Diagnosed with asthma at 12 and hospitalized several times with pneumonia in high school, she was two years into her undergraduate program at Loyola University when she faced emergency surgery after doctors found a rare tumor on her right lung.
Since then, she’s tried to infuse her nursing career with the same kind of care she received from the nurses and doctors who saved her life. For almost 17 years, she provided psychiatric care for inmates in the Cook County Jail. Now, she’s a clinical nurse case manager at John H. Stroger Jr. Hospital, Cook County’s public hospital.
“I think care should always be the core of how you treat everyone,” Adell-O’Neal said. “You don’t have to be my child for me to have a concern for you. I’ve got this compassion.”
He tested positive for COVID-19 on April 1. Two days later, so did she. For about three weeks, they quarantined together in an upstairs bedroom of their home. She thought she was getting better. But then, one night, she couldn’t breathe.
She left for the hospital the next morning. She promised her family that no matter what happened, she wouldn’t try to be a nurse. She’d be a patient.
“If I stayed home another night, I wasn’t going to wake up,” Adell-O’Neal said. “I knew I had a 50/50 chance of coming back home.”
One of the first things Adell-O’Neal did as a patient was fill out a form that said she did not want to be put on a ventilator.
“I remembered being on a ventilator when they took my one lung. I remembered all of that,” Adell-O’Neal said. “And so I decided, you know what, I have to make this executive decision in terms of my care.”
Holloway, who’s been a nurse for about 25 years, said that she’s had some experience with HIV, AIDS and SARS, but that nothing prepared her for the coronavirus.
“It’s so scary,” Holloway said. “The patients … they get sick so quickly.”
In nursing school, Holloway said, nurses are taught to embrace the mantra: “Look at the patient. Don’t look at the monitor.” It means listening to patients — their complaints, their symptoms, their stories — can sometimes tell you more about a patient’s condition than medical equipment can. But watching how quickly a COVID-19 patient’s condition can change, Holloway said, “You almost feel almost kind of helpless.”
Holloway said her first COVID-19 patient arrived in good spirits and was intubated four hours later. Her next patient was intubated even sooner. She knew she had to try to keep Adell-O’Neal from getting to that point, but she also knew she couldn’t rely on her usual nurse’s instincts to help determine where, exactly, that point would be.
“She knew I was terrified,” Adell-O’Neal said.
Holloway was scared, too.
Adell-O’Neal said Holloway promised her she’d do everything she could to keep her out of the ICU. Still, she’d read about nurses and doctors dying from COVID-19 and thought to herself: “God, don’t let me be one of those casualties.”
That fear loomed in the back of Elin Cheng’s mind, as well.
Cheng, 24, is another nurse who helped care for Adell-O’Neal. The floor where she works mostly served as an orthopedics unit before the coronavirus. At first, Cheng said, she panicked when she learned she’d be caring for COVID-19 patients. But after a few weeks, she said she’d grown to trust her team of nurses in a way she never had before.
“It still can be nerve-wracking, you know?” Cheng said. “But then I just have to remind myself, ‘It’s OK. You have people helping you. ... I’m not in it alone.’”
Cheng thought she knew what to expect when another nurse briefed her about Adell-O’Neal, saying, “She’s one of us.” She’d cared for other nurses before.
“They always say nurses can make the worst patients,” Cheng said. “We’re just, you know, we’re so nosy. We want to know everything.”
Instead, she started to realize this was a patient she could learn from, too.
“She was in the health care field for so long and had an abundance of insight and knowledge,” Cheng said.
“We would just share stories about our family and just not talk about COVID.”
Adell-O’Neal said her room was a place where nurses could have “moments” and “get away from everything.” She welcomed the company.
One of the most difficult parts of her hospital stay, she said, was dealing with the isolation (“I’m a talker,” she likes to remind people). She FaceTimed with her family, but visitors aren’t allowed in patients’ rooms. For days and sometimes weeks, nurses and doctors may provide COVID-19 patients with their only human interaction, which can take an emotional toll on medical workers, too.
“We’re supporting our colleagues, and now we’re trying to support the [patients’] families. And then we’re supporting the patients,” Holloway said. “Emotionally, I don’t know how we’re all going to be once this is all over.”
Over time, Adell-O’Neal’s condition improved. She could walk from her bed to the bathroom without her oxygen levels dropping.
On the Sunday before Mother’s Day, Adell-O’Neal left the hospital. “Am I ready?” she said in a video she recorded from her wheelchair. And just as she answered her own question — “Yes” — she heard cowbells ringing.
About a dozen nurses waited for her down the hall, gathered next to an open door.
“Bye, guys!!!” she tells the nurses in the video, her voice on the verge of laughter and tears. “Thanks, everybody!”
She couldn’t see the nurses’ faces behind their masks, but it didn’t matter. She knew they felt the same relief and joy that she did. She knew, she said, because she is a nurse, too.
While most discussions have focused on countries’ use of surveillance technology, contact tracing is actually a fairly manual process. After interviewing contact tracing experts and taking an online course, ProPublica health reporter Caroline Chen presents her takeaways.
This story was first published on Tuesday, May 19, 2020 in ProPublica.
I want you to mentally prepare yourself for a phone call that you could receive sometime over the course of this pandemic: in the next few months or year.
Your phone might ring, and when you pick it up, you may hear someone say, “Hi, I’m calling from the health department.” After verifying your identity, the person may say something like, “I’m afraid we have information that you were in close contact with someone who tested positive for the coronavirus.”
The person calling is what’s known as a contact tracer. As most states begin to lift restrictions on movement and people once more start to eat in restaurants, work in offices and get on public transit, these phone calls will become more frequent. State public health departments are hiring thousands of these workers, and experts are calling for more than 100,000 contact tracers to be deployed across America.
I can only imagine how I would feel if I got a call telling me that I had been in close contact with a COVID-19 patient — shocked, a little scared and possibly a bit in denial. But after spending a week talking to contact tracing experts across the country, and taking an online course as well, I think I’d also feel one more thing: empowered. Here’s why.
Contact Tracing Will Help Us Reopen Safely
Contact tracing is a public health strategy that has been used successfully to combat infectious disease outbreaks across the globe, from the 1930s, when it helped get rampantsyphilis under control in the United States, to the 2014 Ebola epidemic in West Africa.
Fundamentally, contact tracing works by tracking down all the contacts of an infected person and then taking appropriate action to break the chain of transmission. In practice, that action will vary depending on the nature of the disease — obviously, you don’t need someone to self-isolate at home and have groceries delivered to them if a disease can only be transmitted sexually.
The current coronavirus has been particularly tricky to contain because patients can be contagious a few days before they display symptoms, and some infected people may never show symptoms at all. Furthermore, the time between the onset of symptoms from one case to another is estimated to be quite short, around four days. All these characteristics have helped the virus spread rapidly — and that means that tracers have to move very quickly to reach patients and their contacts in order to cut off new branches of infection.
Experts tell me that contact tracing is the key to safely reopening the economy.
“This narrative has emerged that either we lift all our social distancing measures and let the virus burn through the population, or we hunker down at home forever and let the economy collapse, but that is a false choice,” said Dr. Crystal Watson, an assistant professor at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health and lead author of a white paper on how the United States can scale up its abilities to identify and trace COVID-19 cases.
“We have this tool — contact tracing — and if we spend some effort and funding on actually building up our capacities, we can control transmission, get back to work much more safely and avoid unnecessary loss of thousands of lives.”
When a patient gets a coronavirus test, the lab reports the results back not only to the patient’s doctor, but also to the local health department. A contact tracer is assigned to the case and will call the person to ask about symptoms, to take down information about people the patient has been in close contact with recently, and to help draw up a plan for isolation, which could entail figuring out how to get groceries or medications delivered.
Current guidance by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommends patients who test positive isolate themselves until the following three criteria are fulfilled: 10 days have passed since symptoms first appeared, the patient has had three full days with no fever, and other symptoms like cough or shortness of breath are also improving. For close contacts who have been exposed, the CDC recommends a 14-day quarantine after the last date of exposure. (“Isolation” is the term used for confirmed positive patients, “quarantine” is used for exposed contacts; practically speaking, what you need to do is the same — stay away from others.)
A contact will be told when they were exposed, but never who it was that exposed them to the virus; the health department keeps that information anonymous.
Since the isolation period for patients with the disease depends on symptoms, health department staff need to call back regularly to monitor their progression and help determine when they can safely leave home again. They also check in on quarantined contacts, to see if they are developing symptoms and may need to get tested.
How Does Contact Tracing Work?
In theory, the process sounds straightforward, but the details can be daunting. I had many questions, starting with: Who exactly counts as a contact?
For now, I am still working from home and have had no prolonged or close contact with anyone other than my husband. But when New York’s stay-at-home orders end, I wanted to know: If someone in my office got sick, would my whole newsroom have to go into quarantine? What happens if someone has a subway commute — would contact tracing break down?
Public health workers will make decisions on a case by case basis, said Dr. Marcus Plescia, chief medical officer of the Association of State and Territorial Health Officials. “You don’t want too many people slipping through the cracks, but at the same time, it’s a big ask, since you’re asking people to stay at home for two weeks.”
In my hypothetical scenario, a contact tracer might consider the office’s ventilation system, Plescia said, to help decide if a whole office needed to go into quarantine. (A case study of a restaurant in Guangzhou, China, concluded that currents from an air conditioner likely helped carry the virus from an infected person to two neighboring tables.) Another factor would be how well the patient remembered all of his or her interactions in the two days before symptoms began.
When it comes to public transit, the experts told me that transmission risk would be much higher if a patient spent their whole commute chatting with a friend — in which case, they’d know who that person was and could give that information to a contact tracer — while risk would be much lower for commuters who are not touching or talking to one another, especially if everyone was wearing a mask.
Dr. Emily Gurley, an associate scientist at Johns Hopkins and instructor of a free online course now required for all tracers hired by the state of New York, noted that the CDC definition of a close contact presumes that people are not wearing masks. (And if you think you’ve got the knowledge to be a contact tracer, try our quiz.)
Still, contact tracing efforts may be hampered by other circumstances, such as when patients are too sick to interview. Then, Gurley said, “you’re trying to understand who their contacts are by talking to their family member — but they’re not going to have been with the patient all day long.”
Other times, patients may not know the names of everyone they came in contact with, such as at a gym or grocery store. In those cases, contact tracers will use whatever pieces of information they can get to track down potential contacts, according to Capt. Eric Pevzner, chief of the CDC’s Epidemic Intelligence Service program.
“You might say, ‘I talked to Bob at the grocery store, but I don’t know his last name,’ then I will call the local grocery store and ask, ‘Do you have someone called Bob who works in the produce section?’”
Pevzner recently traveled to Utah to help with contact tracing efforts. (I was surprised to hear that such a high-ranking official would be deployed to do such tedious work, but Pevzner said that the magnitude of the pandemic is so large, even he got sent into the field.)
In Utah, Pevzner made sure to always use a landline, because people wouldn’t pick up if he rang from his cellphone, presuming an out-of-state number was a spam call.
“The hard part right now is that everyone’s days are blending together, because everyone’s at home,” he said. “Normally, I could ask, ‘When did your symptoms start?’ And you might say, ‘Normally I go to spin class on Wednesday night, so it was Wednesday morning at work that I started to feel bad.’ Now, people can’t remember what day it is, so I might ask, ‘What did you watch on TV?’ And I’ll Google the TV show to figure out what day it was.”
Contact Tracing Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect to Work
What happens if a contact slips through the net? Much has been made of South Korea’s meticulous contact tracing abilities, which includes sweeping up citizens’ cellphone and credit card information and publishing digital diaries of positive patients — with information as granular as the seats they sat in at movie theaters and the restaurants they ate at. In Hong Kong, incoming travelers are placed in mandatory quarantine and given wristbands to track their movements to ensure compliance.
We wouldn’t do that in the United States, for both privacy and logistical reasons. Does that mean we’re doomed to contact tracing failure?
Not so, the experts told me, and there’s preliminary data that can help us estimate the levels of testing and tracing needed.
Let me first note that the following studies are preprints, which are draft research papers shared publicly before being published in an academic journal. While they are yet to be peer reviewed, outside experts not involved in the papers told me they look sound. Both papers testify to the power of contact tracing, when done robustly but not necessarily perfectly.
Researchers in the U.K. used a model to simulate the effects of various mitigation and containment strategies. The researchers estimated that isolating symptomatic cases would reduce transmission by 32%. But combining isolation with manual contact tracing of all contacts reduced transmission by 61%. If contact tracing only could track down acquaintances, but not all contacts, transmission was still reduced by 57%.
A second study, which used a model based on the Boston metropolitan area, found that so long as 50% of symptomatic infections were identified and 40% of their contacts were traced, the ensuing reduction in transmission would be sufficient to allow the reopening of the economy without overloading the health care system. The researchers picked Boston because of the quality of available data, according to senior author Yamir Moreno, a professor at the institute for biocomputation and physics of complex systems at the University of Zaragoza in Spain. “For other locations, these percentages will change, however, the fact that the best intervention is testing, contact tracing and quarantining remains,” he said.
Johns Hopkins’ Gurley reminded me: “This isn’t an all or nothing game — our goal isn’t to get rid of the virus, we missed that boat. Our goal is now to keep numbers low enough that the health care system can handle the cases and that we don’t have any large outbreaks even as we open up.”
Is the United States Doing Contact Tracing?
Contact tracing can only be effective, however, if there are sufficient staff to carry it out. Local health departments have eliminated more than 50,000 jobs over the past decade, said Oscar Alleyne, chief of programs and services for the National Association of County and City Health Officials. “Those positions have not been refilled. They’ve just done more with less.”
It’s only now, in May, that states are starting to build up contact tracing forces. Estimates for how many we will need are staggering.
Wuhan, China, has a population of 11 million. At one point, it employed 9,000 contact tracers, split into 1,800 teams of five people, according to the World Health Organization-China joint mission report. That’s a ratio of 81 contact tracers per 100,000 residents. Massachusetts, which has a population of 7 million, is hiring 1,000 contact tracers, which would be about 14 contact tracers per 100,000 residents. California Gov. Gavin Newsom has said the state will recruit up to 20,000 people to do contact tracing work, including librarians and city attorney staff not able to do their current jobs. That would amount to 50 contact tracers per 100,000 residents.
Of course, the number of contact tracers needed doesn’t just depend on population, but also on the size of the outbreak and compliance with physical distancing and other mitigation measures. New Zealand, which has the virus well under control, has only 190 contact tracers for the whole country (a ratio of 4 per 100,000 residents). It’s hard to argue that they need more.
George Washington University’s Fitzhugh Mullan Institute for Health Workforce Equity has created a tool that estimates the contact tracing workforce needs by state, taking into account coronavirus case counts. As of May 7, it estimated that the United States would need about 184,000 contact tracers, or about 56 per 100,000 Americans.
Many states are still in the process of hiring. Georgia began to allow businesses to reopen on April 24, but it only announced plans to increase its contact tracing force from 250 to 1,000 workers on May 12.
New York City will hire 1,000 tracers by June 1, and it plans to hire 5,000 in total, according to NYC Health + Hospitals spokeswoman Karla Griffith. As of May 17, the city had hired “upwards of 50 people pending background checks,” she said.
“We’re still playing catch-up,” Alleyne lamented. “We’re trying to get to a place where we can move forward.”
It’s important to remember that contact tracing doesn’t work in a vacuum. States need to have robust testing capacity; without the ability to find positive cases in the first place, contact tracers can’t do their work. Once cases and contacts are identified, they also need a way to truly isolate themselves, which can be a challenge for people who share bedrooms and bathrooms with family members or roommates. Many states are now considering the use of hotels or other facilities to offer patients and contacts a place to stay if needed. This is why you often hear the phrase, “Test, trace, isolate” — “trace” on its own is not very effective. You need all three working in concert to properly cut off transmission.
And even when we have a robust contacting tracing corps in place, that doesn’t mean all physical distancing can go out the window. The U.K. modeling study assumed each case had 20 to 30 contacts. If we all started going to football games and hanging out in crowded bars, we’d massively increase the number of contacts we each had and could rapidly overwhelm the capabilities of our local health departments. In South Korea, health authorities scrambled to locate and test more than 5,000 people when a 29-year-old man tested positive after visiting five nightclubs in the capital, Seoul. Since then, more than 100 infections have been connected to the cluster — it’s unclear if all are due to this one individual — and the Seoul city government has shut down all bars and nightclubs indefinitely.
Contact Tracing Also Helps Us Learn About the Virus
There’s more to contact tracing than suppressing transmission. Contact tracing is also a great way to gather data, which can help scientists learn about the virus.
Pevzner, of the CDC, was in Utah because he was helping to conduct a household study in which both nasal and blood samples were collected from every member of households where one person had tested positive for the coronavirus. Fourteen days later, samples were collected again. The nasal samples were used to test for an active infection, while the blood samples were used to test for antibodies, an indication of past infections. By using both types of tests, the researchers could see whether there were any family members who previously had been infected without knowing it. By testing twice over two weeks, the researchers also hoped to find out whether home isolation was successful or not, by monitoring whether any new infections developed within the household.
Dr. Adam Karpati, senior vice president of public health programs at health organization Vital Strategies, said that such studies can also help tease out “patterns of transmission,” whether that is identifying high-risk settings — are homeless shelters or certain types of workplaces particularly vulnerable? — and types of contacts that are more likely to be infected.
One question on many people’s minds is how children are affected by and transmit the coronavirus. Contact tracing studies can help to start answering that question. For example, a study of 391 COVID-19 cases and their 1,286 close contacts in Shenzhen, China, published in the journal Lancet Infectious Diseases, found that young children were as likely to get infected as adults, though the disease was far milder.
The same study found that contacts who lived with the patient or who had traveled with the patient were at higher risk of infection than other close contacts, which included people who had shared a meal or interacted socially. More studies will need to be done to confirm this type of finding — especially in different geographical and societal contexts.
Isn’t There an App for That?
Beyond traditional manual contact tracing, there’s been considerable buzz about the potential use of phone apps for contact tracing, particularly after Apple and Google announced last month that they would work together to create a contact tracing system.
The Apple-Google system uses the Bluetooth antennas in smartphones to record when two people with the same app come close to each other, but it does not log any location data. If one person later tests positive, and records that in the app, a notification will be sent to all users who were close by in recent days, without revealing the identity of the person who had tested positive. Apple and Google are not developing an app but rather a platform — the apps are to be designed by local public health authorities and run on this system.
Many of the experts I spoke to were skeptical about the success of digital contact tracing apps, because a high degree of uptake is necessary for them to be successful.
In a best-case scenario, an app could be a welcome “workforce multiplier,” helping to identify contacts and new cases at a time when speed is critical, said Watson, of Johns Hopkins, but she cautioned that if information about exposure is only shared with app users and doesn’t get shared with public health departments in a manner that allows public health workers to follow up, then utility will be limited.
Even as digital apps continue to be explored, there are other, less flashy technologies that can be helpful to contact tracing efforts. Something as simple as text messages to ask exposed contacts how they’re feeling can reduce the number of daily follow-up calls that a health worker needs to make every day.
“Let’s say you have a mild case, it may be less invasive to just text. But if you’re 75 and you say, ‘I hate texting!’ Someone should call you,” said Gurley, the instructor of the contact tracing course. “Those tech options should be there to help, not replace.”
The Key to Successful Contact Tracing? Trust.
Across all the interviews I did, there was one word that every single person I interviewed said at least once, if not multiple times: trust.
Contact tracing, ultimately, depends on the goodwill of a population. While health departments, in theory, may have some legal authority to enforce isolation of a confirmed COVID-19 patient, it’s highly unlikely in the United States that health departments could enforce a quarantine order for a contact who hasn’t yet developed symptoms, said ASTHO’s Plescia, meaning that success will be down to the voluntary cooperation of the community.
Dr. Raj Panjabi, CEO of nonprofit Last Mile Health, which works to improve access and quality of care in rural and remote communities, told me a story about contact tracing in Liberia during the Ebola outbreak. A woman in her 40s had come down with Ebola and, unable to find treatment in the city, had gone back to her home in the middle of a rainforest to be with her loved ones, where she died. A couple of weeks later, 21 people, including many who had attended her funeral, had contracted the disease.
The Ministry of Health hired people from the community and paired neighbors with nurses to go door to door to conduct interviews. Ultimately, they identified 216 contacts for the 21 cases and managed to halt transmission.
The key, Panjabi said, was “hiring the neighbors of the patients — that builds trust. You’re less likely to give your information to a stranger. You have to have rapport and empathy. It comes when someone sounds like you.”
After the Ebola outbreak, Liberia not only maintained all the health workers it had hired, but it even scaled up to create a national community health workforce of 4,000, which goes door to door providing preventive care for mothers and children, as well as testing and treatment for diseases like malaria, Panjabi said. When the coronavirus pandemic emerged, they were rapidly retrained to look out for COVID-19 cases. As of May 16, the country had reported 219 cases.
“When someone has taken the time to find you in your home village, to tell you important information about your health and to try and help you, that’s pretty compelling and that shows their commitment to you,” Johns Hopkins’ Gurley said.
Contact tracers may not have to come to my door here, in America, but I hope that if I do get called someday and am told that I was exposed to the virus, that after I get over the initial shock, I’ll have the presence of mind to say: “Thank you for all the work you’ve done to bring me this information. I’m happy to stay at home.”
With regular employees out sick, CVS and Walgreens rely on traveling workers to fill in at short notice. But when these floaters show up at a store, they often aren't told if anyone there has tested positive.
This story was first published on Monday, May 18, 2020 in ProPublica.
He joined Walgreens around a decade ago, fresh out of pharmacy school and eager to learn. Like many new grads, he started as a floater — a substitute for employees who call out sick or take vacation — and he was floated as far as he was willing to go. Sometimes he would drive hours east of the Dallas area, where he lived, to pick up shifts in rural Texas, sleeping in hotels for days at a time.
The pharmacist, who requested anonymity because he was not authorized to talk to the media, eventually worked his way up to become a full-time manager at a store in Dallas. But recently he's returned to floating, this time at CVS, preferring its flexible hours. In the past three months, he's traveled between 10 stores.
As the pandemic rages on, though, he wonders if he's made a terrible mistake. When he shows up at a store, he said, he's not told whether any employees have shown symptoms or tested positive, so he doesn't know if he's at risk. On two occasions, the Dallas floater said, he only heard from colleagues after he started his shift that they had just been working alongside someone who was self-isolating with COVID-19 symptoms. Because his temporary co-workers had not shown symptoms, they were not advised to quarantine.
"There's no heads-up," he said. "It's terrifying to learn about it after you show up, if at all." Even more terrifying, he added, is the possibility that he and other floaters are catching the virus and unwittingly spreading it to other stores.
Floaters are common in hospitals, nursing homes and pharmacies, and they play a critical role in making sure that these facilities have enough staff to properly care for patients. But in a pandemic, workers who pitch in at multiple sites could be at higher risk of both contracting and spreading the coronavirus, forming an overlooked link in the chain of transmission. They may catch the virus at one location, and once they're reassigned, carry it to their next stop.
"It's absolutely a concern to move people around where there's active transmission, some of whom might be susceptible," said Denis Nash, a professor of epidemiology at CUNY School of Public Health. "It puts the floater pharmacist at risk, and it potentially seeds transmission where it might not otherwise happen."
At pharmacies, some floaters are full-time employees. Others, including the Dallas floater, work part time for a specific chain; they don't qualify for general sick leave, although they do get two weeks' paid leave if they contract the coronavirus. Most are given schedules weeks in advance. But with pharmacies needing immediate replacements for people who have tested positive or fallen ill, floaters said that they are being given shorter notice than usual about where they'll be working next — and little information about whether anyone there has been exposed or infected.
Fifteen employees at CVS and Walgreens, the country's two largest retail pharmacy chains, told ProPublica that floaters are not given information about whether any employee has gotten sick with the coronavirus at a store when they show up to work there. One floater told ProPublica that he has worked in as many as 20 stores in the past month without being told about any infections before he showed up at a location. Several floaters said that managers at both companies refused to fill them in about potential exposure, citing privacy laws. Those privacy laws do not apply, experts told ProPublica. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention guidelines advise employers to inform employees about possible exposure to the coronavirus in the workplace.
A floater in Ohio, who works at about a dozen Walgreens a month, said he warns his colleagues that he may endanger them. "I always tell people, 'Definitely stay away from me, don't get close to me, because as the floater, I'll probably be the one who is going to bring the virus to you,'" he said.
The use of floaters "is just going to turn pharmacies into hot spots," said John Fram, a senior pharmacy tech at a Walgreens in New York City. "Techs and pharmacists who worked with positive employees or work within a hospital are still moving around working at lots of other stores in the city." Fram said that a tech who took a shift at his store had previously worked at a Walgreens in Chelsea where ProPublica reported an outbreak of the virus among at least three employees in April.
Walgreens said that, to help reduce the risk of exposure, it is taking steps to limit the number of stores where floaters are working and "to fill open shifts with the same individuals as much as possible." When notified of a confirmed or presumed case of COVID-19, it said, its responses include "identifying and contacting individuals who may be at risk in order to self-quarantine or self-monitor their health, as well as cleaning and disinfecting impacted areas of the store or the entire location."
While there were pharmacists at the Chelsea location who worked at other stores, "none were ever presumed positive or in contact with someone who was presumed positive," Walgreens said.
CVS said it has introduced policies to ensure the safety of employees, whether they work at a single location or are part of the "subset of pharmacists who 'float' between different store locations." Those policies include requiring employees to wear masks; installing protective shields at counters and checkout stations; hourly cleanings for hard surfaces; and a wellness and temperature check before an employee begins a shift.
All employees, including floaters, are notified if they have been exposed to a co-worker who tested positive, CVS said. Regarding whether employees are notified if they are assigned to a store that has had previous cases of COVID-19, CVS said, "Employees who were not exposed and work subsequent shifts are in a work environment that has been deep cleaned or has had hourly or more regular cleanings."
Both a CDCreport and a New England Journal of Medicine study flagged staff members who work in multiple facilities as a factor in the hundreds of cases of COVID-19 associated with the Life Care Center of Kirkland, a nursing home in King County, Washington, and to the spread of the virus to other nursing homes in the area. "It's a common practice within the nursing industry and within health care to work in multiple places," said Timothy Killian, a spokesperson for Life Care Centers of America, which manages more than 200 long-term care facilities nationwide, acknowledging that "it was possible" that such mobile workers "contributed to the spread of COVID-19."
An employee at a Walgreens in Houston who tested positive worked at other store locations while infectious, in close contact with fellow employees, according to an informal complaint submitted in March to the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. "The employer is aware of this information and has not communicated that to other employees, nor allowed them to self-quarantine for 14 days as per current CDC guidelines," a summary of the complaint stated.
Walgreens said that it used contact tracing to investigate the complaint, which involved a pharmacist who worked at two stores. It then informed OSHA that the complaint was inaccurate, it said. "All employees who were deemed in close contact with the team member were asked to self-quarantine at home and put on paid leave," Walgreens said. "None of the employees that worked with this team member tested positive for COVID-19." After receiving the company's response, OSHAclosed the complaint.
Recognizing the propensity to increase contagion, some long-term care facilities and nursing homes, including Life Care Centers, have discontinued the practice of having staff float from one facility to another. "When we got notified about the first case, we stopped that right away and put in place a policy that if a nurse had a job elsewhere we would make them choose one location," Killian said. In April, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services advised long-term care facilities that "staff as much as possible should not work across units or floors."
Floaters are often younger graduates of pharmacy schools, though many late-career pharmacists also take up the role, prizing its freedom from the demands of a single store's bureaucracy. Neither CVS nor Walgreens provides information on the percentage of its workforce — some half a million workers combined — that floats.
Many large companies have come to rely on a temporary pool of workers, whether they are in-house or drawn from an agency, said Susan Houseman, the director of research at the Upjohn Institute for Employment Research, a think tank in Kalamazoo, Michigan. "This kind of on-demand workforce, where workers just appear as regular employees but have unpredictable schedules, is very prevalent in retail, restaurants and across the hospitality industry," she said. Such precarious work schedules can make it difficult for temps, substitutes, floaters and part-time employees to benefit from the same safety precautions as their stationary counterparts, she added.
Whitney Abbott floated for about nine years as a pharmacist, traveling anywhere within a two-hour radius, until she settled at a Walgreens in Columbia, South Carolina. She's witnessed firsthand the pressures on current floaters to pick up part-time work. "If you see a shift pop up, even if it's in a hot spot, you can't really afford to turn it down," she said. Now the ex-floater is worried that floaters taking shifts at her location may be carrying the virus. After a co-worker contracted the virus from an unknown source, Abbott, who is in her third trimester of pregnancy, was recently quarantined for possible exposure. Multiple floaters have been filling in for her. "They could have come from a town that was a hot spot and potentially brought it into our store," she said, "and the next day they could be back in a small town where everyone knows everybody."
Such a travel dynamic is "exactly how a virus like this keeps spreading," according to Colin Furness, an infection control epidemiologist and assistant professor at the University of Toronto. "The disease follows people," he said. "So if there's a higher risk in a populated area, and you travel to a rural area, you are bringing the disease from a higher-risk area to a lower-risk area."
Conditions at CVS and Walgreens may heighten the dangers for floaters and for those who come into contact with them. Depending on a store's layout, recommended social distancing measures can be difficult if not impossible to enforce behind the counter. "Our locations are too small to socially distance while we work, so we're potentially exposing all sorts of people," said Fram, the Walgreens tech in Manhattan, who spends hours in the same small space as colleagues.
Despite the cleanings stipulated by both Walgreens and CVS, employees said that it is difficult to clean stores frequently and that supplies remain scarce. When someone tested positive at one of the CVS stores where the Dallas floater worked, the people in charge of sanitizing it were the pharmacist and the lead technician, who cleaned the counters, keyboards and phones with Lysol wipes. It was a valiant effort, he said, but hardly the work of professionals.
CVS and Walgreens did not respond to questions about employee complaints that it's hard to maintain social distance and that cleaning is inconsistent.
Whether they're floaters or not, CVS and Walgreens employees say that management rarely tells them when a co-worker shows symptoms or tests positive. But employees stationed at a single location are more likely than their roving counterparts to learn about such developments by word of mouth. While managers "have avoided giving us any notifications when someone gets sick," said Fram, who stays put at the Walgreens in upper Manhattan, "it's such a tiny district that we all know each other's business."
Floaters said that they are unaware of what's happened not only before they've come into a store, but also after they've departed. In one case, a floater stopped working at a store, and days later an employee there fell sick; the floater said he was not informed at the time and still doesn't know whether he was also exposed or even the source of the exposure.
"Because you're not on a conference call or on a mailing list with a core group of employees and managers, you don't receive the same regular communications that others would," the Dallas floater said. "You are relying on others to play telephone with you about what's going on."
When employees notify CVS or Walgreens that they are presumed to have COVID-19 or have tested positive, they are advised to quarantine for two weeks, for which they can receive paid leave. The CDC advises that workplaces then identify and contact any individual who "has been within 6 feet of the infected employee for a prolonged period of time." In practice, however, each workplace exercises significant discretion to define what prolonged means and just how risky the exposure was.
One floater in Ohio described receiving a last-minute change to her schedule and showing up to a store where co-workers told her that there had been a confirmed case. "Everything was done secretively and the safety of the employees [was] endangered," the floater wrote in an email to ProPublica in April. "If the company is sending people to work in a store that recently has a positive case, they should tell the people what to expect. They should, at least, tell them what happened there and advise them to wear masks or take precautions."
Employees in several CVS and Walgreens stores say that district managers have referred to the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPAA, as a justification for not informing them about their potential exposure. "They tell us it's HIPAA, but they really just don't want us to be scared or to have to shut down the store," said one pharmacist, who worked in a store where neither he nor floaters were told by managers that multiple workers had fallen ill with the virus.
HIPAA, however, does not apply to this situation, said Joy Pritts, the former chief privacy officer at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. "In this case, it's being used as a shield," she said. HIPAA protects health information shared between patients and providers in health care settings, but it does not govern the notifications employers may provide to employees in a pandemic, she added.
While the Americans with Disabilities Act requires employers to keep medical information about individual employees confidential, employers are encouraged by the CDC and local health agencies to communicate anonymized information that may prevent the spread of an infectious disease. "When businesses don't want to share information, they often blame privacy laws," Pritts said. "But they are often making a business calculation as to whether to share the health information, not a legal one."
CVS and Walgreens did not directly respond to questions about whether managers were improperly citing HIPAA when employees sought information about possible exposure. A Walgreens spokesperson said that HIPAA and other privacy policies do not "prevent us from identifying and contacting employees who may be at risk from exposure to COVID-19."
During the first week of April, the Dallas floater was offered an open shift at a store. CVS didn't tell him that there had been two positive cases at that location, but he was lucky enough to know the manager there, who tipped him off, he said.
Once again he faced the same grim calculus as so many part-time workers in America: risk exposure or lose a paycheck. "If I don't take the shift, there are plenty of other people who would be willing to pick up those hours," he said. "They will pull people from all over Texas if they need to fill that shift, and they are banking on somebody not caring about the risk to do it."
Nevertheless, he declined.
Do you have information you'd like to share about working at a pharmacy or a tip on how your pharmacy is handling the pandemic? Please email ava.kofman@propublica.org.
California’s governor and San Francisco’s mayor worked together to act early in confronting the COVID threat. For Andrew Cuomo and Bill de Blasio, it was a different story, and 27,000 New Yorkers have died so far.
This article was first published on Saturday, May 16, 2020 in ProPublica.
By March 14, London Breed, the mayor of San Francisco, had seen enough. For weeks, she and her health officials had looked at data showing the evolving threat of COVID-19. In response, she’d issued a series of orders limiting the size of public gatherings, each one feeling more arbitrary than the last. She’d been persuaded that her city’s considerable and highly regarded health care system might be insufficient for the looming onslaught of infection and death.
“We need to shut this shit down,” Breed remembered thinking.
Three days later in New York, Mayor Bill de Blasio was thinking much the same thing. He’d been publicly savaged for days for not closing the city’s school system, and even his own Health Department was in revolt at his inaction. And so, having at last been convinced every hour of delay was a potentially deadly misstep, de Blasio said it was time to consider a shelter-in-place order. Under it, he said, it might be that only emergency workers such as police officers and health care providers would be allowed free movement.
“I think it’s gotten to a place,” de Blasio said at a news conference, “where the decision has to be made very soon.”
In San Francisco, Breed cleaned up her language in a text to California Gov. Gavin Newsom. But she was no less emphatic: The city needed to be closed. Newsom had once been San Francisco’s mayor, and he had appointed Breed to lead the city’s Fire Commission in 2010.
Newsom responded immediately, saying she should coordinate with the counties surrounding San Francisco as they too were moving toward a shutdown. Breed said she spoke to representatives of those counties on March 15 and their public health officials were prepared to make the announcement on their own. On March 16, with just under 40 cases of COVID-19 in San Francisco and no deaths, Breed issued the order banning all but essential movement and interaction.
“I really feel like we didn’t have a lot of good options,” Breed said.
In an interview, California Health and Human Services Secretary Dr. Mark Ghaly said it was critical to allow Northern California counties to rely on their own experts, act with a degree of autonomy and thus perhaps pave the way for the state to expand on what they had done. And three days after San Francisco and its neighboring counties were closed, Newsom, on March 19, imposed the same restrictions on the rest of California.
Breed, it turns out, had sent de Blasio a copy of her detailed shelter-in-place order. She thought New York might benefit from it.
New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo, however, reacted to de Blasio’s idea for closing down New York City with derision. It was dangerous, he said, and served only to scare people. Language mattered, Cuomo said, and “shelter-in-place” sounded like it was a response to a nuclear apocalypse.
Moreover, Cuomo said, he alone had the power to order such a measure.
For years, Cuomo and de Blasio, each of whom has harbored national political ambitions, had engaged in a kind of intrastate cold war, a rivalry that to many often felt childish and counterproductive. When de Blasio finally decided to close the city’s schools, it was Cuomo who rushed to make the public announcement, claiming it as his decision.
“No city in the state can quarantine itself without state approval,” Cuomo said of de Blasio’s call for a shelter-in-place order. “I have no plan whatsoever to quarantine any city.”
Cuomo’s conviction didn’t last. On March 22, he, too, shuttered his state. The action came six days after San Francisco had shut down, five days after de Blasio suggested doing similarly and three days after all of California had been closed by Newsom. By then, New York faced a raging epidemic, with the number of confirmed cases at 15,000 doubling every three or four days.
Health officials well understood the grim mathematics. One New York City official said of those critical days in March: “We had been pretty clear with the state about the implications of every day, every hour, every minute.”
As of May 15, there were nearly 350,000 COVID-19 cases in New York and more than 27,500 deaths, nearly a third of the nation’s total. The corresponding numbers in California: just under 75,000 cases and slightly more than 3,000 deaths. In New York City, the country’s most populous and densest, there had been just under 20,000 deaths; in San Francisco, the country’s second densest and 13th most populous, there had been 35.
The differing outcomes will be studied for years, as more is learned about the virus, its unique qualities, its varying strains, its specific impact on certain populations, and the role of factors like poverty, pre-existing health problems and public transportation in its spread and lethality.
California, if twice as populous as New York, does not have nearly as many people living on top of one another; despite San Francisco’s density, it does not have millions of people packed into subways and buses the way New York City does. New York City is home to far more African Americans, a population hit hard by the virus.
But the timing of New York’s shutdown undeniably played a role in the dire human toll the virus has exacted. In April, two prominent experts said in a New York Times opinion article that their research showed that had New York imposed its extreme social distancing measures a week or two earlier, the death toll might have been cut by half or more.
It’s an assessment shared by Dr. Tom Frieden, the former head of New York City’s Health Department. “Days earlier & so many deaths could have been prevented,” Frieden tweeted in April.
Asked if Cuomo questioned the accuracy or integrity of the findings on how many deaths might have been prevented with an earlier imposition of the statewide shut down, a spokesman wrote:
“Our job is to make policy decisions based on the facts and data we have at the time and that’s exactly what we did. We needed the public’s buy-in, which is what happened, and how we ultimately flattened the curve.”
In recent days, Cuomo has said he wished he had been quicker to see the threat, “blow the bugle” and take action, only to all but instantly shift tone and cast blame everywhere: at international and U.S. health agencies; at the federal government; at news organizations.
“Governors don’t do global pandemics,” Cuomo said.
In an interview, a senior Cuomo administration official, authorized to speak but not be named, defended the timeliness of New York’s response to the virus. He said the administration had closely followed a variety of models showing the evolving scope and impact of the spread and had calibrated its actions accordingly. The governor, he said, had conducted an orderly unwinding of a giant economy and a state of 20 million people. Each measured step — closing schools, gradually reducing the state’s daily workforce — had been undertaken to limit panic and gain the public’s compliance with developments that could upend lives and diminish and damage a great city.
The official asserted that, from the discovery of the first positive COVID-19 case in the state on March 1 to the shutdown on March 22, New York had acted faster than any other state.
“Three weeks, 20 million people,” the official said. “Insane.”
The official noted that California’s first case surfaced on Jan. 26, its first death occurred March 4 and its statewide shutdown went into effect March 19, a span of almost two months.
But a range of health officials and scientists interviewed by ProPublica say creating such timelines misses the central issue: No later than Feb. 28, federal officials warned the country that a deadly pandemic was inevitable. It is from that point forward, they say, that any individual state’s actions should be judged.
Of the models showing how earlier action might have spared lives, the Cuomo administration official insisted that the governor’s decisions had been guided by the data.
“We could have closed in November,” the official said. “When there were no cases. For nothing.”
“We followed the models,” he said. “We followed your goddamn models. All the models were wrong.”
There was certainly one model that proved prescient, and it had been made public by late February.
Marc Lipsitch, a Harvard professor of epidemiology and the director of the Center for Communicable Disease Dynamics, created one of the first modeling tools used in the U.S. for the COVID-19 pandemic. The model was available to both city and state officials in New York in February, a full week before the first confirmed New York case. The state said the Lipsitch model was not one they looked at for guidance. The city did make use of it, and concluded that just a couple of dozen sick people in New York could ultimately produce more than 100,000 cases by the middle of April, which is quite close to what happened.
In an interview, Lipsitch offered no opinion on New York’s actions, but emphasized that models are meant to be but one source of helpful information to guide policy makers. They don’t predict the future, and using them to do so is misguided.
“For any decision-maker to say they relied exclusively on models to make decisions about what to do and when and how,” he said, “is an abdication of responsibility.”
For New York and California, the clock for quick and prudent action in the fight against COVID-19 began ticking no later than Jan. 17, when the federal government announced it would begin screening passengers arriving in both states from China. The virus had been found outside China and would soon be discovered in dozens of countries. New York and California were known destinations for a steady stream of weekly travelers from China. The Jan. 26 announcement of California’s first case surprised no one.
If California’s lower infection and death totals could owe to a wide variety of still undetermined factors, the state’s efforts, especially its partnership with San Francisco, were marked by both cooperation and a degree of daring. The elected officials turned to their health experts for advice, and they trusted and followed it.
Breed, in particular, was quick to see the limited utility of waiting for confirmed cases to drive policy choices. The testing had begun late; there were too few tests available; they would never be able to accurately capture the existence and spread of the disease.
An examination of New York’s response paints a different picture.
While New York’s formal pandemic response plan underscores the need for seamless communication between state and local officials, the state Health Department broke off routine sharing of information and strategy with its city counterpart in February, just as the size of the menace was becoming clearer, according to both a city official and a city employee. “Radio silence,” said the city official. To this day, the city employee said, the city can’t always get basic data from the state, such as counts of ventilators at hospitals or nursing home staff. “It’s like they have been ordered not to talk to us,” the person said.
The city official also said that after the city had been assisting the state in identifying and responding to outbreaks in city nursing homes, the state two weeks ago abruptly told the city its help wasn’t needed. More than 5,000 nursing home residents in New York have died of COVID-19.
Asked about the city’s claims, a Cuomo administration official insisted the state was working “hand in glove” with all local health departments.
For his part, de Blasio spent critical weeks spurning his own Health Department’s increasingly urgent belief that trying to contain the spread of the virus was a fool’s errand. The clear need, as early as late February, was to move to an all-out effort at not being overrun by the disease, which meant closing things down and restricting people’s movements. The frustration within the department grew so intense, according to one city official, plans were discussed to undertake a formal “resistance”; the department would do what needed to be done, the mayor’s directives be damned.
Breed, San Francisco’s mayor, issued a local emergency order granting her wide powers to confront the virus before there was a single confirmed COVID-19 case in the city. There were nearly 100 in New York before de Blasio issued a similar order.
Freddi Goldstein, a spokeswoman for de Blasio, said that any organized rebellion at the Health Department was news to the administration, and that de Blasio had been “nothing but upfront, honest and blunt with New Yorkers from the start.”
“Everyone underestimated the threat because the information we had was greatly limited from the start,” Goldstein said.
In California, state health officials did their own modeling of the outbreak, while New York’s state health officials acknowledged to ProPublica that they did not and instead relied only on publicly available data, some of it first-rate, some suspect.
New York’s pandemic preparedness and response plan, first created in 2006 and running to hundreds of pages, predicted the state’s health care system would be overwhelmed in such a situation, and it highlighted two vital necessities: a robust and up-to-date state stockpile of emergency equipment and protective gear, and a mechanism for quickly expanding the number of hospital beds available.
Despite repeated requests, New York state health officials would not say what was in the state’s stockpile at the start of 2020, but it clearly wasn’t adequate. Cuomo publicly lamented the lack of such resources almost from the start of the crisis. One senior health executive said he recalled Cuomo being frustrated early on by the state’s stockpile, asking: “What’s in it? Is it expired?”
As for expanding hospital capacity, it was not until March 16 that Cuomo designated a task force to engineer greater numbers of beds, demanding a 50% increase in capacity in 24 hours.
“You could make an argument that it should have happened a month before,” said Michael Dowling, the chief executive officer of Northwell Health, the largest hospital organization in the state and one of the health care leaders Cuomo appointed to the task force.
It took another two weeks before Cuomo announced he had created a “command center” that would get a handle on emergency supplies and available beds at hospitals across the state so that such resources could be directed at places of need. It had been a month since the state’s first case.
As for the state pandemic plan that laid out how hospital expansion should happen, Northwell’s Dowling said that he’d never seen the document and did not know of its existence.
“I can’t recall in the last 15 years a discussion with the state about what would need to be done in a pandemic,” Dowling said in an interview.
The state’s performance once New York fell under siege from the disease has also been challenged. State Health Commissioner Howard Zucker — one of a half-dozen advisers who made up Cuomo’s brain trust during the crisis — has been pilloried by the local press for his decision to allow nursing home residents who tested positive for the disease to be returned to those homes. The administration reversed its position this week.
Meanwhile, the New York State Nurses Association has sued the state Health Department and its commissioner for failing to adequately equip front-line medical workers with protective wear and allowing hospitals to order nurses sickened by the virus back to work.
In the lawsuit, the association laid out what its own survey had shown about the harm that had come to its members because of shortages in protective equipment. Some 70% of the nurses who responded to the survey said they had been exposed to the virus at work; 11% said they had tested positive for the disease.
In a statement, Jonah Bruno, a Health Department spokesman, said: “The State of New York continues to take every step necessary to ensure that health care workers, particularly those who are sampling and providing direct care, have the support and supplies needed to address this unprecedented public health emergency. Throughout the course of this pandemic response, we have sent healthcare facilities approximately 29 million masks, 475,000 eye shields, 16 million gowns, and 446,000 pairs of gloves.”
“This Isn’t Our First Rodeo”
In New York, the inevitable arrived March 1 when a Queens woman became the first in the state to test positive for COVID-19. She had recently returned from Iran, where the virus had been rocketing through the country for weeks, killing almost 1,000 and sickening 23 members of Parliament.
Cuomo took the news in stride.
“There is no cause for surprise — this was expected,” he said in announcing the test result. “As I said from the beginning, it was a matter of when, not if.”
The next day, the state’s second case surfaced. A lawyer in New Rochelle, just miles north of New York City, had tested positive. The circumstances were far more disturbing: The man had not traveled beyond his daily commute to his Manhattan office, certainly not to any known COVID-19 hot spots such as China or Italy. He’d been infected in the U.S. by an unknown person, a phenomenon in the world of infectious disease known as “community spread.”
New York’s first two cases came as health officials, around the globe and in the U.S., were sounding heightened alarms. Five days before New York’s first positive test, Dr. Nancy Messonnier, director of the National Center for Immunization and Respiratory Diseases at the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said publicly that COVID-19 had thus far met two of the three factors needed to be classified as a pandemic: illness resulting in death and sustained person-to-person spread.
Community spread, Messonnier said, was now happening in Italy, Iran, Hong Kong, South Korea, Taiwan and elsewhere. If COVID-19 began spreading in U.S. localities, she said, shutting down schools, limiting businesses and banning mass gatherings would have to be quickly considered.
In those first days of March, Cuomo and his administration were, in the words of one official, “trying to get their sea legs.” Countries around the world had taken a variety of steps to limit the spread of the disease, starting aggressive testing and contact tracing programs, as well as closing schools and businesses, and forcing people to stay in their homes except for emergencies. But in Washington, President Donald Trump had for weeks been minimizing the threat of COVID-19, calling growing concerns about it a Democratic hoax one day, predicting its miraculous disappearance another.
It had become evident by then to local officials like Cuomo in New York and Newsom in California that it was going to be up to them to navigate the crisis on their own with advice from their experts and advisers.
In early February, with the virus raging mostly in China, Cuomo struck a note of caution, aimed at calming what he considered unreasonable fear of the new virus. The seasonal flu was a graver worry, he said. New Yorkers needed, in his words, to preserve a sense of reality.
By late February, Cuomo seemed to have begun apprehending the growing threat. He had company. Frieden, who had served as the New York City health commissioner for a decade and had helped oversee the response to the H1N1 flu pandemic in 2009, wrote publicly that COVID-19 was already approaching the category of “severe” pandemic. Frieden argued that more aggressive, even radical, interventions to limit people’s interaction had to be on the table.
The Cuomo administration official said that by then Cuomo’s designated inner circle — his health commissioner, his budget director, his closest aide and an old hand who would return to Cuomo’s side from his position in academia — were conferring every day, dozens of times.
Cuomo on Feb. 26 announced that the state’s highly regarded laboratory had developed a test for the virus, and he was seeking federal approval to begin using those tests. He said the state Health Department had $40 million to hire additional staff as well as procure equipment “and any other resources necessary to respond to the potential novel coronavirus pandemic.”
And so when the March 2 news of community spread surfaced in New Rochelle, Cuomo urged calm. The state, he proudly noted, had successfully confronted a wide variety of health scares over the years.
“We are fully coordinated, and we are fully mobilized, and we are fully prepared to deal with the situation as it develops,” Cuomo said.
“This isn’t our first rodeo.”
New York had a detailed plan on preparing for and responding to a pandemic, first produced by the state Health Department in 2006. After 9/11, the federal government had funded state and local efforts meant to better protect the country from a wide variety of threats, from terrorism to hurricanes to biowarfare to infectious disease outbreaks. New York used the money and the moment to address a possible pandemic.
New York’s plan anticipated that a flu-like disease would likely sicken large numbers of people and overwhelm the health care system; and since outbreaks could occur simultaneously throughout the country, localities would need to rely on their own resources to respond. It noted that health care workers and first responders would be at high risk of illness, further straining the health system.
But while the report’s subsequent pages of charts and subsections tackle a raft of issues — legal authorization to impose limits on public events; the creation of an “incident command system” that would coordinate efforts from a range of state agencies — there are few specifics on what officials should do to prevent or mitigate the potential calamities the report presciently predicted.
The document simply says it’s up to hospitals and local authorities to develop plans that turn the document’s vision for adding hospital beds and protecting health care workers and first responders into reality.
Dowling, the Northwell CEO and a trusted adviser to Cuomo who said he didn’t even know the document existed, said, “A plan on a piece of paper that doesn’t have an operational part means nothing,” Dowling said.
Asked about Dowling’s remarks, and whether hospital officials statewide were aware of the plan, Bruno, the Health Department spokesman, said “representatives from all responding services to the multi-service plan meet several times throughout the year to review and update the plan.”
Stanley Brezenoff, a legendary New York public servant who was head of New York City’s Health and Hospitals Corporation under Mayor Ed Koch, and who has been called on in times of crisis by mayors and governors, said the state’s response plan seemed noble enough on its face.
“It’s one thing to have a kind of check-the-boxes planning,” Brezenoff said. “But it needs to go to the next level and become concrete. If we need 200 more hospital beds, what does that entail? Plans, tabletop exercises. These can easily fall into empty exercises. Turning them into being useful is the challenge.”
State Health Department officials have said that the plan had been useful in 2009 during the H1N1 pandemic, a threat that turned out to be less damaging than first feared, and that it had been regularly updated since. Bruno said the department had participated in a variety of drills with federal and local authorities meant to better prepare for a pandemic.
The document is emphatic on several points, not least the need for a state stockpile of emergency equipment.
One former senior Health Department official said he remembers the creation of the stockpile around the time the 2006 plan was issued. He said he recalled it contained things like medicine for the common flu, but he didn’t think it included sophisticated equipment such as ventilators.
The former official said the federal money that had funded the response plan and the initial stockpile soon dried up. There was always another crisis for the federal government to be financing.
“The threat diminishes, the dollars go away, the focus drops,” the official said. “It’s a cyclical routine. The stockpile was in theory a costly enterprise to do. Your backstop was always the federal stockpile.”
But while the state’s plan makes clear its obligation to be adequately prepared, Cuomo over many weeks sought to portray the federal government as the culprit for the crisis in shortages of protective gear and medical equipment such as ventilators.
“I can’t say to a hospital, ‘I will send you all the supplies you need, I will send you all the ventilators you need,’” he said at one point. “We don’t have them. It’s not an exercise. It’s not a drill. It’s just a statement of reality.”
Trump has dismissed such claims as little more than poor excuses.
“The complainers should have been stocked up and ready long before this crisis hit,” he said in a tweet.
A Cuomo administration spokesman refused to say if the governor had ever read the state’s pandemic plan or if he was satisfied with what was in the state’s stockpile. The administration also refused to make Zucker, the health commissioner, available for an interview.
Dowling, the Northwell executive, said he had talked with Cuomo about the state stockpile during the crisis. Asked if he knew what was in it, Dowling said bluntly, “Not enough.”
“Forgive Them, for They Know Not What They Do”
By March 5, the number of COVID-19 infections in New York City were doubling every five or six days, and officials within the city’s Health Department had become increasingly frustrated at what they regarded as the mayor’s failure to comprehend the size and nature of the crisis. That day, he’d issued a press release expressing confidence that the city could still “beat this thing.”
But some within the department felt there was hope of a breakthrough. The following day, March 6, de Blasio’s most senior aides were to be briefed on the disease model created by Lipsitch at Harvard. Lipsitch had worked with the city Health Department during the 2009 H1N1 pandemic, helping figure out such things as if, when and how to close schools. He was a trusted source.
A city official told ProPublica the department had used Lipsitch’s model to do what it called “a Monte Carlo simulation,” which is what it sounds like: a series of random numbers punched into the model to see the range of possibilities. The official said that the median result out of 50 speculative runs was this: If as few as 25 infected people had arrived from Wuhan, the major Chinese city where the pandemic began, in January, New York would experience “epidemic disease transmission,” perhaps as many as 100,000 cases by April.
It was hardly reckless speculation. Flights from China to New York had gone on daily for nearly three weeks after the first cases were detected in Wuhan and before the authorities began screening arriving passengers. Italy’s first case surfaced on Feb. 20, but flights to New York from that country and others in Europe continued until March 16.
The briefing didn’t work.
“He does not want to believe transmissions are occuring silently,” the city official wrote at the time of de Blasio. “That things might blow up.”
The disconnect between de Blasio and his own Health Department played out — perhaps decisively — in late February and early March. The events of those days have been reconstructed through notes kept at the time by the city official alarmed by what they were seeing — the diminishment and disregarding of one of the world’s most respected local health departments.
The official’s notes show that late February was the first opportunity for de Blasio to have absorbed what his department was warning about. It didn’t go well.
“He said all the wrong things,” the official wrote after a Feb. 26 news conference.
To many in the Health Department, de Blasio’s Feb. 26 appearance was an opportunity for the mayor to level with New Yorkers and prepare them for a true pandemic and its consequences. The virus was likely spreading unseen among people in contact with travelers. Relying on the results of the handful of tests the city had sent to the CDC to set policy was not enough. Aggressive “mitigation” efforts — closing schools or limiting mass transit — needed to be considered, and the millions of people who would be affected needed to be prepared for those possibilities.
De Blasio said at the briefing that he was taking the threat with deadly seriousness, that he was confident he could add 1200 hospital beds if needed, and that people at risk of having been exposed should get tested and seek care.
But he also talked about how there were no confirmed cases in the city, how the seven tests that had been done were all negative, how the city had plenty of time to ramp up its response if things changed. The city official watched disbelieving.
“Awful press conference,” the city official wrote. “He doesn’t seem to appreciate the fact that hospitals have been hit real bad in China and South Korea by COVID-19. Many patients and healthcare workers have been infected. Our message to providers has been to ‘protect your patients and staff’ by preventing hospital outbreaks, as happened catastrophically in Toronto in 2003 with SARS. The mayor is sending a horrible message that can give permission to providers to be complacent.”
The official noted that the New York City Health Department is a revered institution, with an international reputation for its size, resources and expertise. Discouraged and angry that its talent and commitment were being blunted, the official noted how the department’s commissioner had been humiliated by de Blasio in a formal meeting, reduced to tears. Both she and her top deputies, the official wrote, later spent too much of their time at the side of a mayor making public health policy on the fly.
Taken together, the official’s contemporaneous notes, later shared with ProPublica, read like a disturbing diary of what the official came to see as a slow motion leadership disaster.
On Feb. 28, the official noted that the CDC had “made the pivot” to treating the COVID-19 threat as a full-blown pandemic. Why New York’s leaders, Cuomo and de Blasio, had yet to do similarly was beyond understanding. An onslaught was all but inevitable. The public would be rightly furious to be surprised by it.
“It’s incredible that the government hasn’t made the pivot yet to prepare the public for the likelihood that things are about to get very bad,” the official wrote. “Once public credibility is lost, it’s next to impossible to regain.”
Goldstein, de Blasio’s spokeswoman, disputed the idea that the mayor was ignoring or at odds with his top health officials, saying “their guidance was in lockstep with his.” She maintained that the lack of widespread testing had hindered the administration’s efforts.
“The issue was that we had one hand tied behind our back until after we had our first confirmed case, which we now know was likely weeks after the virus was spreading throughout the city. We were not given the tools we needed to properly detect the spread in the five boroughs, which left us with limited understanding for some time into the crisis.”
Asked about whether the mayor was briefed on the Lipsitch model, the one shared with the city in February suggesting the city could see tens of thousands of cases within weeks, Goldstein said she didn’t know.
The city official’s notes show that the Health Department into early March remained confounded by the mayor’s continued talk about prevailing against the threat.
“He doesn’t get it,” the official wrote. “Not convinced that there’s a volcano about to blow beneath us and thinks we need to beat this thing through ongoing containment efforts.”
On March 5, the notes became darker. The official said de Blasio had gagged the Health Department commissioner and her top deputy for infectious diseases for the last three days, ordering them to effectively endorse decisions he was making on his own. The official took a dim view of a mayoral press release claiming that “disease detectives” would be chasing down every case and ordering the infected into quarantine as fantasy.
“The hospital networks are looking to us for information and support, but we’re hampered by the official stances,” the official wrote. “More like China and Iran than what the city is used to getting.”
There were people in the Health Department who knew what was needed, the official said. They went unheeded.
The mayor, the official wrote, should be “employing a risk communication strategy that prepared the public for what we think will happen, that encouraged them to get ready for this — as we do with hurricanes — to figure out how to support the most vulnerable in our family, neighborhood, community, to get prepared for a time when one’s life might get disrupted, to be sure that one has 1-2 months of medications, etc.”
“Then, I’d get people ready for a time when the healthcare system may not function as it typically does, when hospitals will need to care for potentially thousands of severely ill patients when there’s a shortage of beds and ventilators, when there may be hospital outbreaks, when it may be hard to be seen by an outpatient provider. In short, we’d be preparing the public and health care community for a pandemic.”
The next day, March 6, after the failed briefing of de Blasio’s most senior aides on the disease model’s implications, the official wrote: “The inmates truly have taken over the asylum.”
“There is growing internal opposition and coalescence of determination to resist,” the official said of people within the Health Department, regardless of the mayor’s mistaken micromanaging. The official anticipated that it would be “a tough balancing act,” and that officials within the department would try to do what was needed “without getting fired.”
The department’s defiance quickly intensified, the official noted, saying that people at the “highest levels” were “mobilizing” to deliver an “ultimatum” to City Hall: “either pivot to pandemic planning today or they start to deal with a health department that won’t follow his orders.”
Cuomo, the city official said, did not help matters when he at the same time ordered all health departments statewide to quarantine people who might have come in contact with an infected person or traveled to a country with an outbreak. The city was ordered to provide housing with single rooms and private bathrooms for such people. To the official, it was yet another waste of precious time, energy and resources chasing the lost idea that the virus could be contained.
“Forgive them,” the official wrote, “for they know not what they do.”
The city’s Health Department was not alone in despairing of the mayor’s handling of the crisis.
On March 9, a letter was sent to de Blasio and his health commissioner by 18 academics and community leaders demanding that the mayor seriously begin to consider closing schools and curtailing business hours. The signers included at least four distinguished professors at major schools of public health as well as the presidents of several organizations devoted to African American and Latino health and justice.
Those who signed the letter saw a particular threat to minority and poor communities, who are sicker and often rely on the local public hospital as their only source of care.
“What is the plan for them?” the letter asks. “There is no virtue in being a late adopter for these crucial interventions.”
There was no disagreement within the Health Department. Frustration had turned to fury.
Several top officials developed a plan to have one of the department’s most senior leaders effectively dare the mayor to fire him by going live on television and expressing the urgent need to close schools and issue more serious restrictions immediately.
Goldstein, de Blasio’s spokeswoman, said to her knowledge no one at the department had threatened to quit. She could not say if the mayor had seen the March 9 letter. She again maintained the mayor had followed the federal government’s guidance on the threat and how to test for it. She said it is now clear that advice was wrong, and that New York should have been focusing on people arriving in New York from Europe, not China.
On May 14, The New York Times reported that de Blasio’s failure to heed his own Health Department’s concerns was attributable in part to his reliance on the advice of Dr. Mitchell Katz, the head of the city’s Health and Hospitals Corporation. The Times uncovered a March 10 email from Katz to de Blasio’s top aides in which he downplayed the impact of social distancing measures.
There was “no proof that closures will help stop the spread,” Katz wrote in the email, according to the Times.
“We have to accept that unless a vaccine is rapidly developed, large numbers of people will get infected,” Katz wrote, the Times reported. “The good thing is greater than 99 percent will recover without harm. Once people recover they will have immunity. The immunity will protect the herd.”
Goldstein did not dispute the report, saying that de Blasio relied on a variety of advice, including his Health Department’s.
That is not how it was seen within the Health Department, according to the city official’s notes. De Blasio, the official wrote, wasn’t listening at all to his own most experienced experts.
“I don’t know what else to say,” the city official wrote of the mayor in early March. “Every message that we want to get to the public needs to go through him, and they end up getting nixed. City Hall continues to sideline and neuter the country’s premier public health department.”
“We’re getting introductions into congregate settings and hospitals, which is an indication that we’re well into community transmission.”
“We’re fucked.”
“This Is Ridiculous”
London Breed admits some wishful thinking when first confronted with the specter of COVID-19.
“I was kind of like, ‘Stop talking about it,’” the San Francisco mayor said in a recent interview with ProPublica. “Like, you know, like in my mind, I’m like, stop talking about it. It’s not going to hit. It’s like I knew it was coming, but I was trying to will it not to hit.”
But from January on, her chief of staff, Sean Elsbernd, would scarcely let a day go by without bringing it up. Elsbernd and the director of public health, Dr. Grant Colfax, reminded Breed that her city had one of the largest Chinese American communities in the country. They thus paid close attention as the numbers of infected grew exponentially in Wuhan and the virus made its way across Europe.
Colfax was particularly well-suited to recognize the threat early. He was inspired to enter the medical profession some 30 years earlier by the devastating impact of HIV/AIDS on the gay community in the San Francisco Bay Area. Before Breed chose him to lead her Health Department, Colfax had worked in the Obama White House from 2012 to 2014, where he was the director of the Office of National AIDS Policy. He had been involved in response efforts to Ebola and SARS. He was plugged into the world-renowned epidemiology community in the area.
So in January, Breed saw him as a natural fit to lead a kind of improvised cabinet that would advise her on the threat of COVID-19.
Colfax’s briefings for Breed pretty quickly turned ominous. Colfax began to share distressing figures with her, drawn from data publicly released by the World Health Organization and Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. He’d later draw on models from the University of California schools in Berkeley and San Francisco to help understand how many beds would be necessary for treatment, but even without such local forecasting, it was clear to Colfax that the coronavirus could exact a heavy toll on the city.
Breed remembers the briefings vividly. The projections were like something out of a movie. She still feels the fear and confusion as she describes what she learned in those early days.
“We just didn’t have what we needed. We didn’t have what we needed in terms of testing. We didn’t have what we needed in terms of PPE [personal protective equipment], and I just couldn’t believe that we were in a situation like that even though we knew something like this was coming,” she said.
She remembers confronting Colfax and his staff with her disbelief. In her mind, if there were ever an ideal place to get sick, it was San Francisco. There were prestigious hospitals. Biotech research labs. And, as Breed put it, “all these little medical places on the corners everywhere in the city.”
“All of this here in San Francisco and we don’t have the ability to handle this situation if we do nothing? That was what set off an alarm for me,” Breed recalled.
She thought of her own grandmother, who had raised her in a housing project in the city’s Western Addition.
“Just imagine people showing up to the hospital, like if my grandmother, who is not alive today, but let’s say if she were and I took her to San Francisco General because she had the virus and she couldn’t hardly breathe. And she was turned away because they didn’t have a bed for her,” Breed said.
On Jan. 27, Breed and her team established an Emergency Operations Center, pairing clinicians with emergency responders to identify and respond to the city’s needs under the guidance of multiple city agencies. Over the coming weeks, they would figure out where the city could place additional hospital beds and create makeshift hospitals if necessary. They developed strategies to defuse the threat by spreading out people living in congregate settings like homeless shelters and assisted living facilities. Still, Colfax was worried that the city was not moving fast enough.
On Sunday, Feb. 23, Colfax said he was heading home from a weekend away in the Sierras. As his partner drove and the California landscape zipped by along I-80, Colfax reviewed data on his cellphone in the passenger seat. What he saw leapt off the screen: There was the attack rate, which is how quickly the virus spreads among an at-risk population; the death rate, which is how many people die once they get it; and then, perhaps most alarming, the lack of treatment options, which showed how quickly it could overwhelm a health system.
“This is not an incremental process,” he said he realized. “And it became really clear to me that we needed to act faster than the virus,” he said. “It wasn’t as though jurisdictions were saying, ‘Oh, we overreacted.’”
Before he even got home, he called a meeting with his staff from the car and arranged to meet the mayor the following day, Monday, Feb. 24. He told his staff they would need to persuade her to issue a local emergency order.
Breed did not resist. Such a step, though drastic, would allow her to respond to an unseen virus the same way she would a very visible disaster, like an earthquake. If that’s what Colfax deemed necessary, that’s what she would do.
“They are the experts in this world, and so with every decision I’ve made, I had to feel confident in the science and the facts and the data,” she said. “They’re the ones who understand this stuff and know what’s going on and what it can do. And I trusted them.”
Any city employee from that point on would be activated as a disaster service worker, which meant they could be redeployed to tasks that might range from monitoring hotels temporarily housing the homeless to feeding people who have been quarantined to distributing information to San Francisco residents on how best to protect themselves.
She would not have to wait on legislative or bureaucratic approval to spend city money to address such concerns. It would cut a lot of red tape, but it would come with significant risk: The city’s economy revolves around tourism, which was already suffering. Conventions had been canceled. Chinatown, which Breed said was already a “ghost town” at that point, had been the site of several xenophobic attacks. Would this amplify panic? Stigma? Violence?
“As much as it pains me to have to go this route,” she said of her thinking at the time, “it was necessary because we knew that it was coming to San Francisco. We just didn’t know when, and we had to be ready because … we just weren’t moving fast enough.”
She issued the order on Feb. 25, the day before de Blasio’s reassuring press conference in New York. De Blasio would not issue New York City’s emergency order for another 16 days, waiting until March 12 when the number of cases reached 95.
“Although there are still zero confirmed cases in San Francisco residents, the global picture is changing rapidly, and we need to step up preparedness,” Breed said in her announcement. “We see the virus spreading in new parts of the world every day, and we are taking the necessary steps to protect San Franciscans from harm.”
She has acknowledged there was some backlash from economic leaders and Bay Area sports fans, but she stood fast and, over the ensuing weeks, made increasing use of her emergency powers. She issued a series of increasingly cautious, restrictive measures: On March 6, she issued an order recommending that people ages 60 and older stay home as much as possible and told San Francisco employers to eliminate nonessential travel; on March 9, she authorized $5 million in funding to reduce risk of exposure for the homeless and people living on the margins; on March 11, gatherings of 1,000 or more were banned; by March 13, that number was reduced to 100.
That weekend, Colfax absorbed more bad news. He was in awe of the now infamous graphical representations of viral spread. The curves showing spread did not move along a gradual ridge, but in sharp spikes. Colfax explained that part of what drives that spike upward so quickly is that people can spread the virus without knowing it.
“I remember very distinctly looking at the John Hopkins website and just seeing the same damn curve that we saw in Wuhan,” he said in an interview. “The same damn curve [in Italy] and then, you know, very similar curves that were developing in Spain. So I called my staff again on Sunday and said, ‘Look, you know we have been given the gift of time.’ And that’s where I said, ‘You know, we’ve got to think about shutting down restaurants.’”
Breed was starting to come to that conclusion on her own. For her, the revelatory moment came out of frustration. By March 13, she had issued three consecutive orders at the behest of her advisers over about two weeks limiting public gatherings to increasingly smaller numbers.
“It got to a point where I’m like, this is ridiculous,” she said. “There’s no data that helps to make that decision. I’m not going to keep announcing these arbitrary numbers of the events that we have in the city. That it needs to be reduced to 50 or five or what have you.”
She was also looking warily at one county to the south, Santa Clara, which at that time already had more than 100 known cases and had issued a local emergency order two weeks prior to San Francisco.
For her, the direction was clear: Shut it down.
But she knew she couldn’t do it on her own. Unlike their counterparts in New York, Newsom and Breed have a strong rapport. They have shared staff and policy ideas. Jason Elliott, one of Newsom’s senior advisers, had worked in Breed’s office.
“I’m always yelling at him about something to do,” she said of Elliott with a laugh. “They’re very supportive of us. I don’t have this ‘you better not’ kind of tension.”
In an interview, California Health and Human Services Secretary Dr. Mark Ghaly said the Newsom administration was having daily conversations with the public health officers in San Francisco and the surrounding cities and counties in advance of the shelter-in-place orders and that in those conversations, they decided it was important for the counties “to demonstrate they could go with a more stringent order than the state.”
“It felt like it was the right move at the time,” Ghaly said.
He said that the entire state took the same step days later “because it does turn out that every day seems to make a difference in how quickly we were able to respond and control this sort of transmission.”
He said that the limitations imposed in San Francisco and the surrounding area seemed to help Californians adjust to the idea they’d face the same hardships.
“It was actually a decision that, although heavy and hard to make, we made with a great deal of confidence,” he said. “We knew that it would be sort of heard with a lot of scrutiny. But honestly, in retrospect, we’re very pleased with how California reacted pretty much immediately.”
“A True Phenomenon”
In New York, where alarm would lead to action on its own trajectory, Cuomo was most closely concerned with testing. He’d mobilized the state lab to develop one, and in early March he would strike a deal with 28 private labs to produce as many as possible.
Testing, a Cuomo administration official said, offered the best tool for tackling the basic questions: where the virus was and how fast it was moving.
Events in and around New Rochelle, the scene of the second case in New York, provided some of that evidence. Members of the sickened man’s family tested positive, then members of his synagogue. By March 5, there were 18 cases in Westchester County, home to New Rochelle and directly north of New York City.
Cuomo was unfazed. Even a touch piqued.
“The facts do not merit the level of anxiety we are seeing,” he said. “The number will increase because it is math. The more people you test, the more positives you are going to find. I’m a little perturbed about the daily angst when the number comes out and the number is higher. Perturbed meaning, I’m perturbed that people get anxious every time the number goes up. The number has to go up if you continue to test.”
There were, however, growing numbers of experts and elected officials in the U.S. who had already been questioning the strategy of waiting for test results and acting in targeted ways. To them, the likelihood was that the virus already was everywhere.
On March 8, Frieden weighed in again. Frieden, after his stint as health commissioner in New York City, had run the CDC in the Obama administration and is considered a leading authority on public health.
“Last week, I noted that we were in the calm before the storm,” he wrote. “Now, the storm has started in the United States and is gathering strength.”
On March 2, Cuomo convened an interagency state task force to create and execute a strategy for combating COVID-19, with every department from homeland security to administrative services represented. Melissa DeRosa, Cuomo’s closest aide, was placed on the task force, as was Zucker, the state’s health commissioner. Zucker’s department had the experts and had written the state’s pandemic response plan.
More than a week later, on March 10, Cuomo decided there had been enough positive tests to take action in New Rochelle. Westchester County had 100 cases, many of them believed to be traceable to the lawyer who had turned up positive on March 2.
Cuomo closed the local schools and cordoned off the city, even calling in the National Guard. In an interview, the Cuomo administration official said the move amounted to a dramatic response to real numbers of cases. It felt calibrated and appropriate.
“This is unique. We’ve not seen this elsewhere,” he said of the spread in Westchester County. “It’s a true phenomenon.”
The cause for wider alarm was not great, Cuomo emphasized.
“As the number of positive cases rises,” Cuomo went on, “I am urging all New Yorkers to remember the bottom line: We talk about all this stuff to keep the public informed — not to incite fear — and if you are not a member of the vulnerable population, then there is no reason for excess anxiety.”
The Cuomo administration official said the governor had not meant to downplay what was happening in Westchester County. He had merely been struck by the implications of a single man’s illness, calling the lawyer a “super spreader,” and saying Cuomo regarded the events as unique in the U.S.
ProPublica spoke with a half a dozen epidemiologists who said the events in New Rochelle could have been an opportunity for Cuomo to have acted more boldly and broadly. Instead of treating the threat as isolated to Westchester County, Cuomo could have seen a sign of wider infection in tightly packed New York City that hadn’t been detected because of inadequate testing.
“What made anyone in New York think it wasn’t going to get hit, and hit hard?” asked Rupak Shivakoti, an epidemiologist at Columbia. When you’re dealing with a pandemic’s exponential growth in the number of infections, he said, “even a week makes a huge difference.”
More radical steps were already being taken elsewhere. Italy ordered its national lockdown on March 9. Spain did the same a week later, barring children from setting foot outside their homes. On March 13, Los Angeles closed its public schools.
Recent disease models now estimate that, by the time of the first confirmed cases on March 1 and March 2, at least 10,000 people in New York were infected with the coronavirus.
The Cuomo administration official said that from the beginning their team had made use of a variety of disease spread models in their deliberations on what actions to take and when. He said Zucker, the health commissioner, had taken the lead in analyzing the models
In San Francisco and California, officials had looked at similar models, as well as ones state and local officials had commissioned, and decided their value was not in guiding incremental decisions, but in making clear the daunting big picture: a possible tidal wave of cases. One waited for concrete evidence at one’s peril.
In New York, the city Health Department both made use of the modeling tool created by Lipsitch at Harvard and separately partnered with Columbia University’s Mailman School of Public Health to create a model. But Jeff Shaman, who oversaw the modeling work at Columbia, said the state didn’t contact him until March 20 to make use of the tool.
The people responsible for equipping Cuomo and his health commissioner with expert analysis are the scientists at the state Health Department.
“If you have a state Health Department, you damn well better have someone intimately familiar with disease modeling,” Shaman said.
Bruno, the Health Department spokesman, said the state’s epidemiology team at the department was highly accomplished.
Whatever was coming to Cuomo from the state Health Department, one New York City official said it didn’t reflect the input of city health experts. The state had chosen to effectively do without the help of the city Health Department, the official said. While the state’s own pandemic response plan underscored the necessity for state and local health departments to be working together, the city official said the state had opted for “radio silence” in its dealings with the city.
The official said early on, the two departments had worked closely and in sync. They conducted joint webinars for health care providers to keep them informed and guide them in their preparations.
“There was an amazing trust,” the city official said. “Then, in late February, the switch flipped. All communication ended. We were left to work in a black box.”
City health officials were disinvited from subsequent planning meetings with health care providers. Calls and emails were ignored. Information sharing in the midst of a pandemic halted.
The city official said city health workers asked their state counterparts what had caused the sudden lack of communication and cooperation. It was out of character for people the city had worked with intimately for years. Their counterparts would not or could not say, but the city official concluded it had been ordered from the governor’s office.
“It was,” the city official said, “smoke from another fire.”
In the coming weeks, the lack of a collaborative relationship between city and state officials played out in real ways. Nursing homes, all overseen by the state, had become scenes of misery and death as the virus swept through the aging populations. Initially, the state asked the city’s help in identifying and then responding to the increasingly dire outbreaks. The city took on responsibility for monitoring 25 nursing homes and offered to help coordinate any interventions.
And then, again, the partnership foundered.
“We were told our help wasn’t needed,” the city official said. “A lot of switches being flipped. And all in the same direction.”
“The Panic We Are Seeing Is Outpacing the Reality of the Virus”
Deeper into March, Cuomo appears to have come to the conclusion he needed to act more boldly. On March 11, he told New Yorkers they only needed to worry if they were among the vulnerable population, the aged or people with other serious diseases. But the very next day, he banned mass gatherings of more than 500 people. Three days after that, he warned of a wave of COVID-19 cases that could “crash our health care system.”
Even then, though, in pleading for more federal help with testing and maybe building emergency hospital capacity, his message was mixed.
“While again I want to remind people that the facts do not warrant the level of anxiety that is out there, we will continue working closely with every level of government to mitigate the impact of this virus and protect the public health.”
No one ProPublica spoke with for this article failed to appreciate the size of the decisions Cuomo faced. To shut down New York was to do immeasurable economic harm and upend the lives of more than 20 million people, as it appears to have done. That harm could well prove lasting, consigning New York to a damaged and diminished stature for years.
“Gubernatorial leadership is important. The moment was made for someone like Cuomo,” said Chris Koller, president of the Milbank Memorial Fund, a health policy organization in New York. “That said, a leader plays the hand he’s been dealt. He was dealt a pretty crappy hand because of the failures at the federal level.”
Brezenoff, the former New York City official who ran the city’s public hospitals under Mayor Ed Koch, said when fate deals a political leader the worst possible cards, it’s crucial not to make things even worse.
“I respect the complexity of what they were facing,” Brezenoff said. “Lots of things to weigh and not an enviable position. Personalities, governing styles, they do play a part in all that. And their implications can be magnified in circumstances like these.”
The Cuomo administration said what they sought to achieve from March 15 to March 22 was an “orderly winding down” of one of the country’s most populous states and an enormous economy. They feared the effects of a sudden announcement that New York was locking down its populace.
“You go too fast, and you scare the hell out of people,” the Cuomo official said.
Cuomo ordered all New York schools closed on March 15. The administration told local governments to keep 25% of their workforces at home, then, 50%, then 75%. The official said Zucker was a critical adviser on those decisions.
“He was very forceful about the health aspects of social isolation,” the official said of Zucker.
The Cuomo administration official said they were balancing all sorts of information and risks in moving the state toward closure.
In mid-March, the work of the modelers inclined the governor and his aides to consider more extreme measures, even a shutdown. He said, though, that some local officials and business owners pushed back against the idea of shutting down. The administration, he said, believed that the effectiveness of a shutdown would depend on the willingness of people to go along.
“Turn the valve, isolate hot spots, wind things down,” the official said. “It’s a big undertaking. You want people to comply.”
Newsom, of course, had to balance taking dramatic action to limit the spread of the virus with the needs of business interests in his state, too. California, which would have the world’s fifth largest economy if it were its own nation, is home to crucial segments of the nation’s oil and gas and food industries.
In an email, the Newsom administration said those sectors were designated as part of the essential workforce during the state’s shutdown because of their importance to public health and safety. The administration said it had been in frequent contact with business and labor leaders across the state, talking individually to groups representing grocers, growers, farmworkers and Chevron.
The Newsom administration would not answer a question about whether it had communicated its shelter-in-place strategy with Cuomo.
With New York City’s schools closed, de Blasio on March 17 raised the possibility of asking everyone in the city to shelter in place.
The Cuomo official said de Blasio’s talk was “freaking people out.” If the most drastic sorts of constraints on the public were to be ordered, it would be done with deliberation.
On March 19, Cuomo announced what he called “the ultimate step.” He issued an executive order requiring “that all nonessential businesses statewide must close in-office personnel functions.” Cuomo said he was temporarily banning “all nonessential gatherings of individuals of any size for any reason.”
It would be another two days before the order went into effect.
“We know the most effective way to reduce the spread of this virus is through social distancing and density reduction measures,” Cuomo said. “I have said from the start that any policy decision we make will be based on the facts, and as we get more facts we will calibrate our response accordingly.”
“Again, I want to remind New Yorkers that the panic we are seeing is outpacing the reality of the virus,” Cuomo added, “and we will get through this period of time together.”
ProPublica asked Denis Nash, a professor of epidemiology at the CUNY Graduate School of Public Health and Health Policy, to evaluate the Cuomo administration’s repeated boast: that it had acted faster than any other state in moving from the discovery of the first case to the closing of the state.
Nash said the claim was misleading, and that the administration’s measure is irrelevant. The more telling metric is the timing of action in relation to spread. One way to calculate that, he said, would be deaths per million, which was about 10 times higher in New York than in California by the time officials decided to close down the state.
“There is no question that California timed its response better,” he said.
Nash was one of 18 experts who tried to get the city to act sooner in a formal letter to de Blasio.
“As early as the first week of March, the governor and the mayor were being told from all around them that there was active community transmission happening in New York and they needed to take action,” he said. “They knew. And it seems disingenuous to now claim they were the fastest.”
This Isn’t Italy
In recent days, both Cuomo and de Blasio have talked about the importance of looking candidly at the deadly events that have unfolded in New York, of identifying mistakes and better preparing for future disasters, including a potential second wave of COVID-19.
But it remains to be seen how searching that look back will be.
De Blasio, for instance, again seemed to insult his Health Department when he last week assigned oversight of the city’s critical contact tracing program to Katz, the city hospital executive who had expressed skepticism in March about the need for the city to close down.
The contact tracing effort, under which the city will try and systematically hunt down people at risk of having been infected, will be a vital part of any effort to open New York back up. The Health Department has always done this work, but now it will be answerable to Katz.
De Blasio has said the arrangement will help make the effort more efficient and less expensive.
As for Cuomo, he has swerved from what seemed like moments of personal reckoning to harsh assaults on others he blames for New York’s dire outcomes.
“If you don’t understand how it happened last time and you don’t learn the lessons of what happened last time, then you will repeat them, right?” Cuomo said at a May 8 news briefing. “And there’s a chance this virus comes back. They talk about a second wave. They talk about a mutation. And if it’s not this virus, another public health issue. And I think we have to learn from this.”
Yet at the same briefing, Cuomo laid out a narrative of the disaster that seeks to blame the CDC and others for failing to make clear one of the great threats to New York came not from China, but from those infected in Europe.
“Nobody was saying, ‘Beware of people coming from Europe.’ We weren’t testing people coming from Europe,” Cuomo said. “We weren’t telling anyone at the time if you have a European visitor or European guest, make sure they get tested. They walked right through the airport.”
The narrative, of course, fails to note people were not just flying from Europe to New York, but to California and other cities and states. And it seems to portray New York, its health departments and government officials, as somehow innocent bystanders, incapable of having themselves seen the threat from Europe and factored that in their response. That Italy and Spain were being overwhelmed by the virus was hardly a secret.
As for his own state’s actions, Cuomo today appears to see little reason for regret or apology.
At one media briefing in April, as New Yorkers died by the hundreds daily, Cuomo made a bold claim.
“Today, we can say that we have lost many of our brothers and sisters, but we haven’t lost anyone because they didn’t get the right and best health care that they could,” he said. “The way I sleep at night is I believe that we didn’t lose anyone that we could have saved, and that is the only solace when I look at these numbers and I look at this pain that has been created that has to be true.”
Cuomo just last week seemed to double down on the sentiment.
“I don’t think New Yorkers feel or Americans feel that government failed them here,” he said in an interview. “I think they feel good about what government has done. ... Their health care system did respond. This was not Italy, with all due respect. ... There were not people in hallways who didn’t get health care treatment.”