09.04.2021
Biden’s Quiet ‘Breakthrough’ In Talking About Race

For decades, a political calculation has quietly undergirded the sales pitch many Democratic political leaders have made for their economic agenda: If you want to win majority support, don’t bring up race. But if the opening months of the Biden administration are any indication, the math seems to have shifted.

In a recent speech in Pittsburgh where he debuted his infrastructure plan, President Joe Biden invoked any number of universal goals — road spending, “creating good-paying jobs” — while also stressing the need to invest in “communities that have historically been left out of these investments: Black, Latino, Asian American, Native American.” In selling its stimulus plan, the White House identified “advancing racial equity” as one of five cornerstones, giving it equal importance as such overarching goals as “investing in America” and “building back better.”

“Calling out that … racism is holding the entire country back is groundbreaking for a U.S. president,” says Heather McGhee, the former head of the progressive think tank Demos and author of the new book The Sum of Us, which argues that the decline of investment in the “public good” was fueled by racism, and has damaged the American middle class across racial lines. “The president was saying that this is a core story of America that is different from and at odds with many of our more celebrated narratives about equality and liberty and opportunity. That was a breakthrough.”

Since at least the mid-1980s, the pursuit of the archetypal “Reagan Democrat” suburban swing voter has been a lodestar guiding Democratic messaging. The strategy was straightforward: These socially moderate-to-conservative suburban white Americans largely were simpatico with Democrats on economic issues, but voted for the GOP in part because they believed Democrats were interested in pursuing racial justice at the expense of issues they viewed as more relevant to their own lives.

The result of that thinking was a “color-blind” approach to talking about economic policies and programs — emphasizing a “rising tide lifts all boats” message that glossed over or ignored racial disparities. But for reasons both ideological and strategic, that “color-blind” posture is no longer effective for Democrats — and, McGhee says, can actually backfire.

“Since the Obama era, the racial sorting of voters has included white voters moving to the Democratic Party because of their progressive views on race,” she says. “What holds together the progressive coalition is, yes, obviously, a sense that government can — and needs to — be a force for good and address our big crises. But also the coalition … thinks we have to talk about race, and doesn’t want to see politicians without the courage to address these obvious inequalities head-on.”

In this way, while the Biden administration’s massive investments in middle-class economic growth have been likened by some to the liberal heyday of Franklin D. Roosevelt, that comparison misses an important difference. The New Deal era was defined by policies that were “either explicitly, as in the housing subsidies, or implicitly, because of segregation in education and housing under the GI Bill, for whites only,” says McGhee. By contrast, she sees the Biden era as “a massive refilling of the pool of public goods for everyone.”

What explains that change? What shifted in American politics that prodded Democratic leadership to directly address the racial components of economic issues? And what’s the hidden history that led to the disinvestment in public goods just as Black Americans began to be included in what America saw as the “public”? To sort through it all, POLITICO Magazine spoke with McGhee. A condensed transcript of that conversation follows, edited for length and clarity.

Let’s talk about swimming pools. It’s a vivid metaphor you use in your book, and a history I was unfamiliar with. Can you explain the significance of public swimming pools?

Heather McGhee: In the 1930s and ’40s, the country went on a building boom of public amenities — public libraries, parks, schools and swimming pools. But these weren’t normal swimming pools. These were grand, resort-style pools that could, in many instances, hold thousands of swimmers.

In many ways, it was emblematic of a larger ethos at that time: that it was a government’s job to ensure a higher and higher standard of living for its people. You saw that in the New Deal-era social contract, which included massive subsidies for housing, high labor standards, wage floors, the GI Bill — which put a generation of men into homeownership and into college and the professional ranks. And all of that was either explicitly, as in the housing subsidies, or implicitly, because of segregation in education and housing under the GI Bill, for whites only. These massive public investments created the great American middle class on pretty much a whites-only basis.

Public swimming pools were also often segregated. And in the late 1950s and early ’60s, when Black families began to successfully advocate [for integration], saying that their tax dollars had paid for these public pools and they wanted their children to be able to swim in them, too, many cities across the country opted to drain their public swimming pools rather than integrate them.

That meant that white families lost out on a public good they had cherished. It meant that the entire community lost out on a public space and a commons that could foster social cohesion. It meant that white families with enough money started to build their own backyard swimming pools — that’s when we really began to see that phenomenon in the suburbs — and these membership-only, private swim clubs popped up all across the country. Black families often had to go without — and so did the white families who couldn’t afford it when what was once a public good became a private luxury.

The drained swimming pool is a metaphor for what has happened throughout our economy, as what was once a public commitment to a high standard of life was traded away, and there was a withdrawal of public support for the kinds of economic investments that would create a diverse middle class. In many ways, because of racism, the majority of white Americans turned their backs on the formula that created the middle class.

Part of your idea is that, historically, as people of color became included in the idea of the “public,” that “public goods” became less popular among white Americans and certainly easier to attack as a political issue. Do you think that’s what’s happening right now, with the wave of voting restrictions that seem aimed at ensuring fewer Black people are able to vote?

Yeah. I open up the book saying, “Why is it that Americans can’t seem to have nice things?” And, to a large extent, racism is the answer. My “nice things” isn’t, you know, laundry that can do itself; it’s health care and childcare and well-funded, reliable modern infrastructure, high-speed rail, universal broadband — the list goes on. A guaranteed right to vote and a functioning representative democracy are on that list, too.

The Founders left holes in the bedrock of our democracy to leave room for slavery. From its founding, there was a tension in this country between the revolutionary ideals of self-governance and the compromises and limitations a white elite forced on our democracy. Elites have attacked the foundations of our democracy time and again in ways that always hit their target, often with surgical precision aimed at erecting hurdles to Black political power. But they’re blunt instruments, and often impact young voters, working- and middle-class white voters, senior voters — anyone who doesn’t have endless time and resources to devote to the act of voting.

On the issue of photo ID requirements: Yes, Black and brown people are twice as likely as white people not to have photo IDs, but among certain parts of the white population, it’s neck and neck. Young adults who are white, white adults making less than $25,000 a year have much higher rates of not having photo IDs [than more affluent white people]. It’s not just about the money and time [needed to get a photo ID]; it’s also about often needing to find birth certificates. There are Kafkaesque stories about how challenging and often impossible it can be for people who have voted all their lives to find the proper documentation to get the kind of ID that politicians find acceptable [in order to vote]. Millions of Americans are not protected when a party elite that is worried about their competitive chances in a real election turns to rigging the rules to make sure that fewer eligible citizens can vote.

In my book, I write about the story of Colfax, Louisiana — one of the largest racist massacres in American history, when a white mob attacked a courthouse where election results were being certified and Black neighbors had stood to try to protect [the vote certification]. More than 100 [Black Americans] were slaughtered, and this white mob burned the courthouse to the ground. In refusing to submit to a multiracial democracy, they were willing to burn the edifice of their own government to the ground.

That is the story of January 6. It is the expected result of lies about election fraud that diminish the legitimacy of Black and brown people voting, and that are based on a sense that both whoever wins the majority of the white vote is the legitimate president, and that Black and brown people are so inveterately criminal that they must be breaking the law by exercising their democratic rights.

On the center-left, there’s long been an idea that “color-blind” messaging is more effective — that progressives have more political success if they can forge a coalition that includes white voters who might otherwise be turned off by a message that more explicitly addresses racism. You think that’s wrong, not just ideologically, but strategically. Why?

We conducted a massive research project that, in its early years, was housed at Demos, called the Race-Class Narrative Project, which tested this proposition: Can a Trumpist, racially scapegoating message beat an early [Bernie] Sanders-style, color-blind economic populist message? And the answer was “no” — and that was often true with surprising segments of the population, like union members. But when you took the color-blind economic populist message and wove in a race-forward calling out of racial scapegoating — [and did so] in a way that explained how racism was a tool of the elites who were making life harder for everyone by breaking the rules — that won far more durable support, well into independents and many base Republicans. And it had the added advantage of being true.

Do you see a change in the willingness of white political leaders in the “establishment left” — for lack of a better term — to publicly address race and the racial component of issues head-on?

Absolutely. In his first speech on race as president, President Biden explicitly called out the “zero-sum” [narrative]. I’m looking at it right now. He said, “For too long, we’ve allowed a narrow, cramped view of the promise of this nation to fester. We’ve bought the view that America is a zero-sum game in many cases: ‘If you succeed, I fail.’ ‘If you get ahead, I fall behind.’ ‘If you get the job, I lose mine.’ Maybe worst of all, ‘If I hold you down, I lift myself up.’”

Calling out that we are all on the same team and that racism is holding the entire country back is groundbreaking for a U.S. president. The president was saying that this is a core story of America that is different from and at odds with many of our more celebrated narratives about equality and liberty and opportunity. That was a breakthrough.

Why do you think that “breakthrough” is happening now?

I think it’s happening now because we are seven years into the largest social movement in American history: Black Lives Matter. Just this past summer, you had 26-plus million people taking action. I think it’s happening because cross-racial movements like the Fight for $15 [a campaign to raise the minimum wage to $15 an hour] are changing the conversation around our economy.

And I think it’s happening because the future of this country is a broad, multiracial, anti-racist majority, and Democratic politicians see that, since the Obama era, the racial sorting of voters has included white voters moving to the Democratic Party because of their progressive views on race. And therefore, what holds together the progressive coalition is, yes, obviously, a sense that government can — and needs to — be a force for good and address our big crises. But also the coalition that elects Democrats is one that thinks we have to talk about race and doesn’t want to see politicians without the courage to address these obvious inequalities head-on.

Speaking of political coalitions, how do you make sense of Trump’s gains with Latino men and with Black men in the 2020 election?

I think it’s important to unpack that, and I also think it’s a little bit overstated, in the sense that white people are still the only people for whom a majority voted for Trump.

In an economy that is as brutally hierarchical as the American economy — where, when you’re at the bottom of that economic ladder, a broken carburetor can lead you to getting evicted, which can lead you to losing your children — a political message that offers you a higher rung on that ladder, even if it’s psychological and not material, can be appealing. That psychological offer of being placed higher up on a status hierarchy — higher than immigrants, higher than women, higher than a certain kind of Black person, higher than a certain kind of Latino — can be appealing.

After four years of a man who styled himself as “the winner” in all things and [offered] for people to be “winners” like him — in a society where being a “loser” means possibly losing everything — it’s not surprising that appeal could be effective with not just white Americans who’ve had generations of that story, but also some, particularly male, Black and brown folks who want to see themselves elevated.

Politics is about storytelling. Everything individuals and groups believe comes from the stories we’ve been told. That’s the relationship between belief and politics: It travels through story. Politicians can be some of the most powerful storytellers in our society, and they tell a story about us — who we are, who belongs, who’s against me, who’s with me.

We’re in a moment where a substantial majority of the public seems to support major governmental spending — which is quite different from the “small-government” era that has long defined U.S. politics. What changed?

We are 50 years into an era of rising inequality and economic insecurity for most families. Even before the pandemic, the richest 1 percent owned as much wealth as the middle class, and 40 percent of adult workers were paid too little to meet their basic needs. The answer that the right wing has — trusting the market to solve our problems, which really means trusting rich, powerful players in the market to solve our problems — seems pretty bankrupt now to most Americans.

The [Biden administration’s] American Rescue Plan had supermajority support among the public, and breaks from a multigenerational neoliberal consensus that we should cut taxes, restrain spending in service of low inflation and leave economic security up to the vicissitudes of the marketplace. I consider [it] to be a massive refilling of the pool of public goods for everyone. It will cut child poverty in half — which reminds us that poverty was a choice. It expresses an ethos that we need to invest in ourselves again.

It has something for every American, and yet you saw Republicans respond with a zero-sum political story.

You’ve mentioned that “zero-sum” narrative a few times. Can you explain what you mean by it?

The “zero-sum” narrative is that progress for people of color comes at the expense of white people, and that white voters should resent aid to immigrants and people of color, and resent any collective benefits or action that puts [white people] on the same team as people of color and immigrants.

You see it in the rush to the U.S.-Mexico border and the theatrics around an immigration crisis. You had Republicans who explicitly said, “I’m not voting for this [American Rescue Plan] bill because Joe Biden is opening the border and not opening our schools. How is that taking care of our children?” That was basically their response to a desperately needed, overwhelmingly popular bill to take care of America’s needs.

You [see it in] Fox News leading with false claims that Democrats are “canceling” Dr. Seuss for being too racist — which seemed to many political commentators to be a silly distraction, and yet they’re missing how that is communicating to the Fox News audience that Democrats are on the “other” side of a zero-sum racial struggle and will cancel you, your culture and the things you love in favor of some undeserving minority.

In your book, you write that “white people are the most segregated people in America.” That’s an inversion of the way that we often think about segregation — which is that people of color are the ones being segregated, not white people. Why was that distinction important to you?

The project of The Sum of Us is to expand the aperture of how we think about the costs of racism. Often, when we consider the costs of policies to deal with the mess that racism has made in many aspects of American life, we think about the costs of the change — not what we’re paying in the status quo.

Taking as a norm that we should just measure the costs of integration feels like a massively incomplete way to do a cost-benefit analysis. You should think about the costs of segregation to us now — to all of us. Because otherwise, we’re just reaffirming the zero-sum: We’re saying white people benefit from the system that they currently have, where they are most likely to live in 75 percent white neighborhoods, and anything we do to change that is going to be a cost to white people and a benefit to people of color. Not only is that a bad political message; it’s also not true.

You note that if you poll white Americans about the housing market, most will say they want to live in racially integrated communities. And yet, they don’t. What explains that gap?

This is based on some great research from Maria Krysan at the University of Illinois that showed a video of totally identical neighborhoods to white and Black prospective homebuyers. Then they changed the actors who were walking on the street [in the video]. And it became clear that the presence of Black people — with no other change to the neighborhood — made white homebuyers rate the neighborhoods lower on the desirability scale. What explains that? Massive anti-Black stereotypes.

Most white Americans don’t know the story of redlining, don’t know the story of the interstate highway system razing flourishing Black communities, don’t know the story of strategic disinvestment and urban renewal. They don’t know any of those stories, so they naturalize the disparities they see.

You see “color-blindness” as well-intentioned, but as something that, in retrospect, perpetuated problems by encouraging people to ignore racial disparities. Do you see any prevailing anti-racist postures today that could, while similarly well-intentioned, create unintended long-term problems?

White Americans’ racial literacy has been so low for so long that I welcome most, if not all, discourse that un-blinkers white Americans from the facts of the racism in this country. I’m encouraged by the increasing audience for books and documentaries and even leaders explaining the very recent history to people who should have it — it’s all of our birthrights as Americans. We should know own our history, and I think it’s been stolen from us in a way. By no means am I kicking anybody out of the anti-racist garden party. [Laughs]

You’ve expressed an unease about the way “trust Black women” has become fashionable thing to say among folks on the left. Tell me about that.

Well, my initial unease was that by suggesting there’s some sort of innate “magic” within us, it suggests a biological basis for race, which is inaccurate. You should never trust anybody who wants to create a biological explanation for certain traits — even if they’re positive — because the negative one can follow soon after. [Laughs] You know? “We’re so ‘magical’ that we shouldn’t be allowed to compete in sports,” or whatever.

I am wary of essentializing any traits. But I do believe that people whose social condition puts them at the bottom of a hierarchy are in the best position to see the whole system and see who is harmed by it and how it should be fixed. It’s not about biology; it’s about what living at the intersections of racism, sexism and greed have shown women of color.

Over the past year especially, there’s been a boom in books about anti-racism. Do find it emotionally draining to have to talk and think about racism so much?

Not yet. [Pause] We have a lot of work to do. I want this country to live up to its potential. I want us to refill the pool of public goods for everyone. I want the light of the American dream to be turned back on for everyone. And I don’t want to go back to a whites-only middle class; I want to see the incredible human capacity within each and every person invested in. And you can’t get there without realizing the way that racism has held the pen as we’ve written so many laws in this country.

Racism in our politics is holding us back from the smart public investments that we need. People have joked that if we had to build the Hoover Dam or put a man on the moon today, we never would. “Public goods” were popular among white Americans as long as “the public” was seen as “good.” And today we have this false worship of all things private, which has stymied what we’ve known in this country for over a century to be the formula for widely shared prosperity and innovation: sound public investments and investing in your people, who are your greatest asset.

Racism in our politics and policymaking has created inequalities and under-investments in a more diverse public. That has a cost for almost everyone. “The People” in “We the People” is meant to include all of us.

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14.04.2021
NEW YORK — Bernie Madoff, the financier who pleaded guilty to orchestrating a massive Ponzi scheme, died in a federal…
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14.04.2021
One of the first things on the agenda this year for Kentucky Republicans was figuring out how to kneecap Democratic…
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  • 1 месяц назад 15.04.2021Politics
    News The Buckshee

    In an effort to push through its agenda, the Biden administration is attempting to redefine basic political concepts. Is the strategy working? This week RYAN breaks down the words that have defined Biden’s presidency so far: bipartisanship, crisis and infrastructure. The administration is even pushing back over what should be the marker for Biden’s 100 days in office, which is technically April 29. The president’s supporters might think we are being pedantic, but allowing people in power to redefine certain words for their own benefit is a slippery slope.

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  • 1 месяц назад 14.04.2021Politics

    NEW YORK — Bernie Madoff, the financier who pleaded guilty to orchestrating a massive Ponzi scheme, died in a federal prison early Wednesday, a person familiar with the matter told The Associated Press. He was 82.

    Madoff died at the Federal Medical Center in Butner, North Carolina, apparently from natural causes, the person said. The person was not authorized to speak publicly and spoke to the AP on the condition of anonymity.

    Last year, Madoff’s lawyers filed court papers to try to get him released from prison in the coronavirus pandemic, saying he had suffered from end-stage renal disease and other chronic medical conditions. The request was denied.

    Madoff admitted swindling thousands of clients out of billions of dollars in investments over decades.

    A court-appointed trustee has recovered more than $13 billion of an estimated $17.5 billion that investors put into Madoff’s business. At the time of Madoff’s arrest, fake account statements were telling clients they had holdings worth $60 billion.

    For decades, Madoff enjoyed an image as a self-made financial guru whose Midas touch defied market fluctuations. A former chairman of the Nasdaq stock market, he attracted a devoted legion of investment clients — from Florida retirees to celebrities such as famed film director Steven Spielberg, actor Kevin Bacon and Hall of Fame pitcher Sandy Koufax.

    But his investment advisory business was exposed in 2008 as a multibillion-dollar Ponzi scheme that wiped out people’s fortunes and ruined charities and foundations. He became so hated he had to wear a bulletproof vest to court.

    Madoff pleaded guilty in March 2009 to securities fraud and other charges, saying he was “deeply sorry and ashamed.”

    After several months living under house arrest at his $7 million Manhattan penthouse apartment, he was led off to jail in handcuffs to scattered applause from angry investors in the courtroom.

    “He stole from the rich. He stole from the poor. He stole from the in between. He had no values,” former investor Tom Fitzmaurice told the judge at the sentencing. “He cheated his victims out of their money so he and his wife … could live a life of luxury beyond belief.”

    U.S. District Judge Denny Chin showed no mercy, sentencing Madoff to the maximum 150 years in prison.

    “Here, the message must be sent that Mr. Madoff’s crimes were extraordinarily evil and that this kind of irresponsible manipulation of the system is not merely a bloodless financial crime that takes place just on paper, but it is instead … one that takes a staggering human toll,” Chin said.

    The Madoffs also took a severe financial hit: A judge issued a $171 billion forfeiture order in June 2009 stripping Madoff of all his personal property, including real estate, investments, and $80 million in assets his wife, Ruth, had claimed were hers. The order left her with $2.5 million.

    The scandal also exacted a personal toll on the family: One of his sons, Mark, killed himself on the second anniversary of his father’s arrest in 2010. And Madoff’s brother, Peter, who helped run the business, was sentenced to 10 years in prison in 2012, despite claims he was in the dark about his brother’s misdeeds.

    Madoff’s other son, Andrew, died from cancer at age 48. Ruth is still living.

    Madoff was sent to do what amounted to a life sentence at Butner Federal Correctional Complex, about 45 miles northwest of Raleigh, N.C. A federal prison website listed his probable release date as Nov. 11, 2139.

    Madoff was born in 1938 in a lower-middle-class Jewish neighborhood in Queens. In the financial world, the story of his rise to prominence — how he left for Wall Street with Peter in 1960 with a few thousand dollars saved from working as a lifeguard and installing sprinklers — became legend.

    “They were two struggling kids from Queens. They worked hard,” said Thomas Morling, who worked closely with the Madoff brothers in the mid-1980s setting up and running computers that made their firm a trusted leader in off-floor trading.

    “When Peter or Bernie said something that they were going to do, their word was their bond,” Morling said in a 2008 interview.

    In the 1980s, Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities occupied three floors of a midtown Manhattan high-rise. There, with his brother and later two sons, he ran a legitimate business as middlemen between the buyers and sellers of stock.

    Madoff raised his profile by using the expertise to help launch Nasdaq, the first electronic stock exchange, and became so respected that he advised the Securities and Exchange Commission on the system. But what the SEC never found out was that behind the scenes, in a separate office kept under lock and key, Madoff was secretly spinning a web of phantom wealth by using cash from new investors to pay returns to old ones.

    Authorities say that over the years, at least $13 billion was invested with Madoff. An old IBM computer cranked out monthly statements showing steady double-digit returns, even during market downturns. As of late 2008, the statements claimed investor accounts totaled $65 billion.

    The ugly truth: No securities were ever bought or sold. Madoff’s chief financial officer, Frank DiPascali, said in a guilty plea in 2009 that the statements detailing trades were “all fake.”

    His clients, many Jews like Madoff and Jewish charities, said they didn’t know. Among them was Nobel Peace Prize winner and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, who recalled meeting Madoff years earlier at a dinner where they talked about history, education and Jewish philosophy — not money.

    Madoff “made a very good impression,” Wiesel said during a 2009 panel discussion on the scandal. Wiesel admitted that he bought into “a myth that he created around him that everything was so special, so unique, that it had to be secret.”

    Like many of his clients, Madoff and his wife enjoyed a lavish lifestyle. They had a $7 million Manhattan apartment, an $11 million estate in Palm Beach, Florida and a $4 million home on the tip of Long Island. There was yet another home in the south of France, private jets and a yacht.

    It all came crashing down in the winter of 2008 with a dramatic confession at Madoff’s 12th-floor apartment on the Upper East Side. In a meeting with his sons, he confided that his business was “all just one big lie.”

    After the meeting, a lawyer for the family contacted regulators, who alerted the federal prosecutors and the FBI. Madoff was in a bathrobe when two FBI agents arrived at his door unannounced on a December morning. He invited them in, then confessed after being asked “if there’s an innocent explanation,” a criminal complaint said.

    Madoff responded: “There is no innocent explanation.”

    As he had from the start, Madoff insisted in his plea that he acted alone — something the FBI never believed. As agents scoured records for evidence of a broader conspiracy and cultivated DiPascali as a cooperator, the scandal turned Madoff into a pariah, evaporated life fortunes, wiped out charities and apparently pushed some investors to commit suicide.

    A trustee was appointed to recover funds — sometimes by suing hedge funds and other large investors who came out ahead — and divvying up those proceeds to victims. The search for Madoff’s assets “has unearthed a labyrinth of interrelated international funds, institutions and entities of almost unparalleled complexity and breadth,” the trustee, Irving Picard, said in a 2009 report.

    The report said the trustee has located assets and businesses “of interest” in 11 places: Great Britain, Ireland, France, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Spain, Gibraltar, Bermuda, the British Virgin Islands, the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas. More than 15,400 claims against Madoff were filed.

    At Madoff’s sentencing in June 2009, wrathful former clients stood to demand the maximum punishment. Madoff himself spoke in a monotone for about 10 minutes. At various times, he referred to his monumental fraud as a “problem,” “an error of judgment” and “a tragic mistake.”

    He claimed he and his wife were tormented, saying she “cries herself to sleep every night, knowing all the pain and suffering I have caused.”

    “That’s something I live with, as well,” he said.

    Afterward, Ruth Madoff — often a target of victims’ scorn since her husband’s arrest — broke her silence that same day by issuing a statement claiming that she, too, had been misled by her high school sweetheart.

    “I am embarrassed and ashamed,” she said. “Like everyone else, I feel betrayed and confused. The man who committed this horrible fraud is not the man whom I have known for all these years.”

    About a dozen Madoff employees and associates were charged in the federal case. Five went on trial in late 2013 and watched DiPascali take the witness stand as the government’s star witness.

    DiPascali recounted for jurors how just before the scheme was exposed, Madoff called him into his office.

    “He’d been staring out the window the all day,” DiPascali testified. “He turned to me and he said, crying, ‘I’m at the end of my rope. … Don’t you get it? The whole goddamn thing is a fraud.’”

    In the end, that fraud brought fresh meaning to “Ponzi scheme,” named after Charles Ponzi, who was convicted of mail fraud after bilking thousands of people out of a mere $10 million between 1919 and 1920.

    “Charles Ponzi is now a footnote,” said Anthony Sabino, a defense lawyer specializing in white collar criminal defense. “They’re now Madoff schemes.”

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  • 1 месяц назад 14.04.2021Politics

    One of the first things on the agenda this year for Kentucky Republicans was figuring out how to kneecap Democratic Gov. Andy Beshear. They dropped legislation in January that placed new limits on the governor’s emergency executive powers, quickly passed the bill, overrode his veto and then fought him in court.

    In the months that have followed, lawmakers across the country — from Maine to California, Oregon to Florida — have proposed and, in many cases, passed similar measures to curtail the sweeping powers bestowed on their state executives.

    The tug-of-war between legislators and governors has the potential to shape the boundaries of gubernatorial authority for years to come and raises substantive questions of how much leeway the state leaders should have during prolonged crises.

    Fiery debates over things like mask mandates and other economic restrictions were frequent last year, particularly in battleground states and those with divided state governments, as public health debates were imbued with election year considerations. But the conflict over the power of the executive transcends ordinary politics, playing out in states both red and blue, and even where one party controls both branches.

    Lawmakers are only now realizing how much power they cede to the executive — and are attempting to reassert themselves in blunt ways. If 2020 marked the rise of the authoritarian governors, 2021 may be the beginning of their fall.

    Republican legislators in Pennsylvania, frustrated with Gov. Tom Wolf, will ask primary voters next month to consider constitutional amendments granting the state’s General Assembly the power to end gubernatorial disaster declarations and require legislative approval for declarations that extend longer than 21 days.

    In Kansas, GOP lawmakers already pushed through a law to sunset Covid-19 executive orders issued by Gov. Laura Kelly, a Democrat, and used their new power to reject a statewide mask mandate. Republican Arkansas Gov. Asa Hutchinson has likewise signed a bill giving the legislature more power to check his and future governor’s emergency authority.

    In New York, the Democrat-controlled Legislature limited Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s ability to issue new Covid-related diktats — one of the earliest signs of the Democrat’s diminished standing in Albany amid multiple scandals. Lawmakers even denied Cuomo political cover by rebutting his claim that he played a role in brokering the legislation.

    And in Ohio, Republicans last month successfully overrode party-mate Gov. Mike DeWine’s veto of a bill that gave lawmakers say over numerous emergency and health orders.

    “We can’t leave it up to one person — no matter how much we like him or her — and everyone else who was elected has to sit on our hands,” Ohio Senate President Matt Huffman, who made the issue a priority after assuming the top leadership spot in January, said in an interview. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work in a republic.”

    As former President Donald Trump took a hands-off approach to the pandemic, bristling at any sort of forceful restrictions on public life, governors across the country flexed their muscles and exerted themselves in ways unprecedented in recent memory as they battled Covid-19.

    Many state leaders have long had extraordinary powers to respond to crises, in some ways exceeding the domestic reach of the president. The pandemic won them even more authority — and exposed the limits of their existing powers — as state leaders took steps that reshaped the lives of their constituents.

    Most governors insisted throughout the crisis that they were being guided by evolving science and trying to navigate uncertain terrain as best they could. But patience appears to have worn out for many legislators consigned to the backseat.

    Lawmakers in nearly every state in the country have introduced a combined 300-plus bills this year related to governor’s emergency authority or executive action taken during the fight against Covid-19, according to the National Conference of State Legislatures. Only a fraction of those measures are likely to ultimately move out of committee, let alone be enacted into law, but the bills nevertheless reflect the considerable interest in recalibrating governors’ emergency authorities.

    In some states, it has been a continuation of philosophical differences that have played out over the course of the still-ongoing pandemic. That dynamic has been particularly evident in places sporting Democratic governors contending with GOP-controlled statehouses like Kentucky, Kansas and Michigan, where conservative outrage over Democratic Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s pandemic mandates put her in physical danger last year.

    But for other governors, it has been members of their own party who have been the ones trying to wrestle back control and deliver emphatic rebukes of their state’s leadership, as was the case in New York and Ohio last month. The move against DeWine marked the first successful override since the Republican took office in 2019 — and it came despite his pleading that the legislation “jeopardizes the safety” of residents and “handcuffs” the state’s capacity to respond to crises.

    “It’s a bit of hyperbole to say people are going to die because of this because that presumes the legislature will collectively ignore that kind of risk,” Huffman said.

    DeWine last week consolidated into one more than a dozen public health orders in order to “simplify” the rules for people, though he denied the changes had any connection to the newly empowered legislature.

    A number of governors and their legislative allies have fended off efforts to pare back their authority, though lawmakers are still in session in most states and could still act.

    Virginia’s General Assembly wrapped without taking up the issue as lawmakers head into an election year, and Connecticut legislators recently extended Gov. Ned Lamont’s emergency powers another month, to May 20.

    Max Reed, Lamont’s communications director, attributed that extension to the sense of collaboration between the two branches of government, both of which Democrats control in Connecticut.

    “Maybe there is a different understanding in states about what they’re facing when it comes to these emergencies,” Reed said. “We’ve had a mutual understanding about what’s been going on with our response and the economy.”

    Many governors saw their standing rise and fall — sometimes more than once — in the minds of their constituents as they charted through uncertain terrain over the past year. At times, they enraged religious leaders, business owners, public health officials and even members of their own political party.

    The battle between legislators and governors was a major factor in the varying ways that different parts of the country responded to the pandemic. It has been somewhat overshadowed as states begin to lift restrictions — occasionally against the advice of public health experts — and national headlines are dominated by Republican-driven efforts to overhaul election laws and target how transgender youths are treated.

    After Democrats failed to break GOP majorities in a single legislative chamber, and Republicans failed to supplant Democratic governors in places like North Carolina, the focus quickly shifted to altering the balance of power in state capitals with regards to pandemic policymaking.

    “We all want to make sure that the governor is able to act quickly in emergency situations, but we need to think about what constitutes an emergency,” said Massachusetts state Sen. Diana DiZoglio, a Democrat who has introduced legislation to limit the powers of Republican Gov. Charlie Baker. “The governor has not signaled any intention of giving up his powers and the legislature has to be the check on the administration.”

    Generally speaking, however, the GOP has tilted far more toward limiting what governors are allowed to do by law than Democrats to date.

    Take the moves in Kentucky, where Beshear remains popular and last week signed a GOP-blessed bill to loosen early voting laws. Among other things, the laws passed by Republicans — which the governor’s office quickly challenged in court — place a 30-day limit on executive orders issued during a state of emergency unless ratified by the General Assembly, requires permission of the separately-elected attorney general before suspending existing statutes and bars the governor from altering election laws during an emergency.

    “If he were a Republican, he would have been nominated for the Nobel Peace prize,” said Kentucky Democratic Party Chair Colmon Elridge, who previously served as an adviser to Beshear’s father, a former governor. “There is a time and a place to have those conversations, but with a little bit of time passed to assess the utilization of those powers.”

    The courts have also struck down some of the ways that governors have tried to wield their powers. In some cases, top lawmakers were the ones leading the legal effort against the executive branch and local health departments.

    At the end of March, the Wisconsin Supreme Court nixed Gov. Tony Evers’ ability to impose a statewide mask mandate in voting 4-3 that he ran afoul of state law by stringing together emergency declarations to prolong the mandate without approval from the GOP-run legislature.

    And Michigan lawmakers cleared the way for a potential legal showdown after Whitmer vetoed legislation yoking new time limits on emergency orders issued by the state health department to nearly $350 million in Covid-19 testing funding. Earlier in March, legislative Republicans authorized Senate Majority Leader Mike Shirkey to sue the Whitmer administration if it attempted to spend money tied to such legislation.

    “Executive fiat has not worked for Michigan,” state Sen. Lana Theis, who sponsored the vetoed bill, said in an interview. “We are supposed to be the voice of the people and we were elected to be that voice. How long do you get to go with a unitary executive?”

    Whitmer has said the Republican legislature is playing a “dangerous game” by trying to leverage the money against her.

    Similarly, Indiana Gov. Eric Holcomb, a Republican, on Friday vetoed a bill that would allow the legislature to call itself into special sessions during emergencies as a way to revoke gubernatorial edicts. Holcomb said he believed the provision was unconstitutional.

    The situation has not always been so contentious, even though governors are instinctively reluctant to cede to any encroachment on the powers vested in their offices.

    Utah Gov. Spencer Cox, who had been second-in-command to the term-limited Republican Gary Herbert before winning the governorship in the fall, managed to negotiate with Republican lawmakers on a timeframe to lift mask mandates and pare back the governor’s emergency powers going forward.

    Rather than attempt to stymie the legislation wholesale, Cox’s office kept in close contact with lawmakers throughout the legislative process and helped secure several changes to the final bill language, Senate Majority Leader Evan Vickers said.

    “There’s reasonable allowance to let the governor operate on a daily basis, so we didn’t interrupt anything on things like tornados or a chemical spill, and even on long term stuff they have room to operate,” Vickers said prior to the bill being signed into law.

    Vickers said the negotiations helped head off moves by some lawmakers to further restrict the governor’s powers to combat the present crisis and engendered Cox some goodwill early in his term.

    “The governor was working along with us even if he didn’t always agree with us,” he said. “I think we landed in a good spot.”

    0
  • 1 месяц назад 14.04.2021Politics
    News The Buckshee

    One of the first things on the agenda this year for Kentucky Republicans was figuring out how to kneecap Democratic Gov. Andy Beshear. They dropped legislation in January that placed new limits on the governor’s emergency executive powers, quickly passed the bill, overrode his veto and then fought him in court.

    In the months that have followed, lawmakers across the country — from Maine to California, Oregon to Florida — have proposed and, in many cases, passed similar measures to curtail the sweeping powers bestowed on their state executives.

    The tug-of-war between legislators and governors has the potential to shape the boundaries of gubernatorial authority for years to come and raises substantive questions of how much leeway the state leaders should have during prolonged crises.

    Fiery debates over things like mask mandates and other economic restrictions were frequent last year, particularly in battleground states and those with divided state governments, as public health debates were imbued with election year considerations. But the conflict over the power of the executive transcends ordinary politics, playing out in states both red and blue, and even where one party controls both branches.

    Lawmakers are only now realizing how much power they cede to the executive — and are attempting to reassert themselves in blunt ways. If 2020 marked the rise of the authoritarian governors, 2021 may be the beginning of their fall.

    Republican legislators in Pennsylvania, frustrated with Gov. Tom Wolf, will ask primary voters next month to consider constitutional amendments granting the state’s General Assembly the power to end gubernatorial disaster declarations and require legislative approval for declarations that extend longer than 21 days.

    In Kansas, GOP lawmakers already pushed through a law to sunset Covid-19 executive orders issued by Gov. Laura Kelly, a Democrat, and used their new power to reject a statewide mask mandate. Republican Arkansas Gov. Asa Hutchinson has likewise signed a bill giving the legislature more power to check his and future governor’s emergency authority.

    In New York, the Democrat-controlled Legislature limited Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s ability to issue new Covid-related diktats — one of the earliest signs of the Democrat’s diminished standing in Albany amid multiple scandals. Lawmakers even denied Cuomo political cover by rebutting his claim that he played a role in brokering the legislation.

    And in Ohio, Republicans last month successfully overrode party-mate Gov. Mike DeWine’s veto of a bill that gave lawmakers say over numerous emergency and health orders.

    “We can’t leave it up to one person — no matter how much we like him or her — and everyone else who was elected has to sit on our hands,” Ohio Senate President Matt Huffman, who made the issue a priority after assuming the top leadership spot in January, said in an interview. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work in a republic.”

    As former President Donald Trump took a hands-off approach to the pandemic, bristling at any sort of forceful restrictions on public life, governors across the country flexed their muscles and exerted themselves in ways unprecedented in recent memory as they battled Covid-19.

    Many state leaders have long had extraordinary powers to respond to crises, in some ways exceeding the domestic reach of the president. The pandemic won them even more authority — and exposed the limits of their existing powers — as state leaders took steps that reshaped the lives of their constituents.

    Most governors insisted throughout the crisis that they were being guided by evolving science and trying to navigate uncertain terrain as best they could. But patience appears to have worn out for many legislators consigned to the backseat.

    Lawmakers in nearly every state in the country have introduced a combined 300-plus bills this year related to governor’s emergency authority or executive action taken during the fight against Covid-19, according to the National Conference of State Legislatures. Only a fraction of those measures are likely to ultimately move out of committee, let alone be enacted into law, but the bills nevertheless reflect the considerable interest in recalibrating governors’ emergency authorities.

    In some states, it has been a continuation of philosophical differences that have played out over the course of the still-ongoing pandemic. That dynamic has been particularly evident in places sporting Democratic governors contending with GOP-controlled statehouses like Kentucky, Kansas and Michigan, where conservative outrage over Democratic Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s pandemic mandates put her in physical danger last year.

    But for other governors, it has been members of their own party who have been the ones trying to wrestle back control and deliver emphatic rebukes of their state’s leadership, as was the case in New York and Ohio last month. The move against DeWine marked the first successful override since the Republican took office in 2019 — and it came despite his pleading that the legislation “jeopardizes the safety” of residents and “handcuffs” the state’s capacity to respond to crises.

    “It’s a bit of hyperbole to say people are going to die because of this because that presumes the legislature will collectively ignore that kind of risk,” Huffman said.

    DeWine last week consolidated into one more than a dozen public health orders in order to “simplify” the rules for people, though he denied the changes had any connection to the newly empowered legislature.

    A number of governors and their legislative allies have fended off efforts to pare back their authority, though lawmakers are still in session in most states and could still act.

    Virginia’s General Assembly wrapped without taking up the issue as lawmakers head into an election year, and Connecticut legislators recently extended Gov. Ned Lamont’s emergency powers another month, to May 20.

    Max Reed, Lamont’s communications director, attributed that extension to the sense of collaboration between the two branches of government, both of which Democrats control in Connecticut.

    “Maybe there is a different understanding in states about what they’re facing when it comes to these emergencies,” Reed said. “We’ve had a mutual understanding about what’s been going on with our response and the economy.”

    Many governors saw their standing rise and fall — sometimes more than once — in the minds of their constituents as they charted through uncertain terrain over the past year. At times, they enraged religious leaders, business owners, public health officials and even members of their own political party.

    The battle between legislators and governors was a major factor in the varying ways that different parts of the country responded to the pandemic. It has been somewhat overshadowed as states begin to lift restrictions — occasionally against the advice of public health experts — and national headlines are dominated by Republican-driven efforts to overhaul election laws and target how transgender youths are treated.

    After Democrats failed to break GOP majorities in a single legislative chamber, and Republicans failed to supplant Democratic governors in places like North Carolina, the focus quickly shifted to altering the balance of power in state capitals with regards to pandemic policymaking.

    “We all want to make sure that the governor is able to act quickly in emergency situations, but we need to think about what constitutes an emergency,” said Massachusetts state Sen. Diana DiZoglio, a Democrat who has introduced legislation to limit the powers of Republican Gov. Charlie Baker. “The governor has not signaled any intention of giving up his powers and the legislature has to be the check on the administration.”

    Generally speaking, however, the GOP has tilted far more toward limiting what governors are allowed to do by law than Democrats to date.

    Take the moves in Kentucky, where Beshear remains popular and last week signed a GOP-blessed bill to loosen early voting laws. Among other things, the laws passed by Republicans — which the governor’s office quickly challenged in court — place a 30-day limit on executive orders issued during a state of emergency unless ratified by the General Assembly, requires permission of the separately-elected attorney general before suspending existing statutes and bars the governor from altering election laws during an emergency.

    “If he were a Republican, he would have been nominated for the Nobel Peace prize,” said Kentucky Democratic Party Chair Colmon Elridge, who previously served as an adviser to Beshear’s father, a former governor. “There is a time and a place to have those conversations, but with a little bit of time passed to assess the utilization of those powers.”

    The courts have also struck down some of the ways that governors have tried to wield their powers. In some cases, top lawmakers were the ones leading the legal effort against the executive branch and local health departments.

    At the end of March, the Wisconsin Supreme Court nixed Gov. Tony Evers’ ability to impose a statewide mask mandate in voting 4-3 that he ran afoul of state law by stringing together emergency declarations to prolong the mandate without approval from the GOP-run legislature.

    And Michigan lawmakers cleared the way for a potential legal showdown after Whitmer vetoed legislation yoking new time limits on emergency orders issued by the state health department to nearly $350 million in Covid-19 testing funding. Earlier in March, legislative Republicans authorized Senate Majority Leader Mike Shirkey to sue the Whitmer administration if it attempted to spend money tied to such legislation.

    “Executive fiat has not worked for Michigan,” state Sen. Lana Theis, who sponsored the vetoed bill, said in an interview. “We are supposed to be the voice of the people and we were elected to be that voice. How long do you get to go with a unitary executive?”

    Whitmer has said the Republican legislature is playing a “dangerous game” by trying to leverage the money against her.

    Similarly, Indiana Gov. Eric Holcomb, a Republican, on Friday vetoed a bill that would allow the legislature to call itself into special sessions during emergencies as a way to revoke gubernatorial edicts. Holcomb said he believed the provision was unconstitutional.

    The situation has not always been so contentious, even though governors are instinctively reluctant to cede to any encroachment on the powers vested in their offices.

    Utah Gov. Spencer Cox, who had been second-in-command to the term-limited Republican Gary Herbert before winning the governorship in the fall, managed to negotiate with Republican lawmakers on a timeframe to lift mask mandates and pare back the governor’s emergency powers going forward.

    Rather than attempt to stymie the legislation wholesale, Cox’s office kept in close contact with lawmakers throughout the legislative process and helped secure several changes to the final bill language, Senate Majority Leader Evan Vickers said.

    “There’s reasonable allowance to let the governor operate on a daily basis, so we didn’t interrupt anything on things like tornados or a chemical spill, and even on long term stuff they have room to operate,” Vickers said prior to the bill being signed into law.

    Vickers said the negotiations helped head off moves by some lawmakers to further restrict the governor’s powers to combat the present crisis and engendered Cox some goodwill early in his term.

    “The governor was working along with us even if he didn’t always agree with us,” he said. “I think we landed in a good spot.”

    0
  • 1 месяц назад 14.04.2021Politics

    There’s nothing quite like a dust-up between two prominent members of the same party to stir the blood. Whether it’s New York Mayor Bill de Blasio and New York Governor Andrew Cuomo lobbing insults at each other, or President Lyndon Johnson and Robert Kennedy barely concealing what one book called their “mutual contempt,” it catches the eye the way a scrap between people wearing the same uniform enlivens any sport.

    But if you want to know why Donald Trump’s public insult to Senate GOP leader Mitch McConnell is different, look at the response of McConnell’s fellow Republicans, who dispatched Senator Rick Scott to fly to Florida to placate Trump with the coveted—and heretofore nonexistent—“Champion for Freedom” award.

    In another time, fellow members of the world’s greatest deliberative body would have rallied round their colleague, or at least held their tongues, secure in their positions. Now, however, they look warily at the political fate of Jeff Flake, Bob Corker and Mark Sanford—and the potential fate of Georgia Governor Brian Kemp, John Thune and other Republicans who have incurred the wrath of Trump.

    In part it’s the source of his anger that marks his attack on fellow Republicans unique—and in part, it’s because he doesn’t mind what kind of damage he does to the party. Disputes between fellow party members are hardly new, but they’re usually limited (on both sides) by an understanding of the collateral damage. When one side really doesn’t care, all bets are off.

    Intra-party disputes have historically taken place during the election process, unlike this one, and they’ve usually been driven by major political arguments, a clash of personal ambitions, or both. Theodore Roosevelt tried to unseat his chosen successor, William Howard Taft, for the GOP nomination in 1912—and when Taft won, he then ran a third-party campaign arguing that Taft had betrayed the Republican agenda. In 1936, Al Smith tried to deny President Franklin Roosevelt a second term, based in part on FDR’s aggressive use of federal power to fight the impact of the Depression. Eisenhower and Robert Taft (son of William Howard) staged a Pier Six brawl in 1952 over the direction of the Republican Party. Robert Kennedy ran against LBJ in 1968 with the Vietnam War as his cause; Ronald Reagan was the conservative challenger to the incumbent President Gerald Ford in 1976; Ted Kennedy was the liberal challenger to President Jimmy Carter in 1980.

    Once that battle is over, there’s powerful pressure to shake hands, or at least coexist, and take the fight to the other team. Bob Kerrey held his 1992 primary rival Bill Clinton in minimum high regard—“He’s an exceptionally skillful liar,” he said of Clinton at one point—but he cast the deciding vote for Clinton’s economic package in 1993 because he didn’t want to effectively cripple a Democratic presidency before it had begun. It takes a special kind of animus for a member of one party to actually defeat a key goal of his or her party’s president, as John McCain did in July, 2017, when he walked into the well of the Senate and dramatically cast a thumbs-down “no” vote to kill Trump’s attempt to repeal Obamacare; perhaps Trump’s sneer that he “liked heroes who weren’t captured” may have had something to do with that vote.

    But then, there’s always been something different about Donald Trump and the Republican Party—in part because he seems to have a stronger connection to its voters than the party leadership does. Even after he won the nomination in 2016, four of the five previous GOP presidential nominees refused to endorse him, as did fully a fifth of the Republican senators…and he won a higher percentage of Republican voters that November than did Ronald Reagan. This past January, seven senators of his own party voted to convict Trump of high crimes and misdemeanors, and Trump’s support among rank-and-file party members was effectively unshaken.

    Once Trump survived, the party found itself having to pay respects again, and not just with the silver bowl Rick Scott handed him earlier this week. The same Republican Senate leader who denounced Trump for a “disgraceful dereliction of duty” and held him “practically and morally responsible for provoking” the January 6th Capitol riot duly said he would support him as the 2024 nominee. House GOP leader Kevin McCarthy and presidential wannabe Nikki Haley have executed even more breathtaking pirouettes, from condemnation to supplication. They and other Republicans seem to have looked at January 6th as the final straw—the climax of behavior so egregious that it finally gave them free rein to call out the president—and then watched, to their horror, as Trump, like Freddy Krueger, emerged whole and ready to inflict fatal political wounds on those who defied him.

    Nor did Republicans need to call Trump out for his behavior in order to draw his anger. The standard for Republican heresy went far beyond a vote to impeach or convict. The simple willingness to follow the plain commands of the law, as did Kemp, or acknowledge that Joe Biden had won, as did Ohio Governor Mike DeWine, was enough.

    For Republican leaders, the urgent call is to find some way toward a truce of sorts. If the party can manage to hold itself together, they know full well that history will be on their side as they seek to retake the House and Senate, given what normally happens to a president’s party in the midterms.

    They also know what happens when a headline figure who becomes power-hungry, or really doesn’t care about the collateral damage, goes after members of his own party. When FDR tied to “purge” Democrats in 1938, the party lost 72 House seats and seven Senate seats. Theodore Roosevelt’s third-party run against his chosen successor William Howard Taft doomed the Republican to a humiliating third-place finish in 1912.

    Trump, too, took down the Republican establishment in 2016, and seems completely unchastened by his loss in 2020. Any plea to Trump to turn down the heat ignores a lifetime’s worth of behavior. Asking Trump not to insult those who have offended him is liking asking him not to exhale.

    0
  • 1 месяц назад 13.04.2021Politics
    News The Buckshee

    The mayor of Brooklyn Center, Minn., announced on Tuesday that he had asked Gov. Tim Walz to reassign the case of Daunte Wright, a 20-year-old Black man shot and killed by police during a traffic stop, to the state attorney general.

    The request from Mayor Mike Elliott is the latest local development since Wright was killed on Sunday, sparking two consecutive nights of unrest in the Minneapolis suburb — a short distance from where George Floyd was killed by police last May and where former Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin is now standing trial on murder and manslaughter charges.

    At a news briefing on Monday, Brooklyn Center Police Chief Tim Gannon released video of Wright’s traffic stop obtained from Officer Kim Potter’s body camera, which showed Potter shooting Wright. But Gannon said he believed that the shooting was an accident and that Potter meant to deploy her taser when she discharged her gun instead.

    Elliott had said he supported Potter’s removal from the force, but Gannon and City Manager Curt Boganey declined on Monday to go as far as the mayor in calling for her firing. Later Monday, Elliott announced that Boganey had been relieved of his duties, expanding the mayor’s control over the police department.

    By Tuesday afternoon, both Gannon and Potter had resigned, while Elliott indicated that Potter would face court proceedings for her role in the shooting — which Gannon previously said the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension was investigating.

    “There’s going to be a process where the officer is going to be in court and is going to go through the legal system to determine guilt or innocence,” Elliott told “CBS This Morning.”

    0
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