By Oakland Post Staff

Alameda County District Attorney Ursula Jones Dickson announced a $3.15 million settlement with Terminix International Inc. and Rentokil North America Inc. over allegations that the pest control companies illegally disposed of pesticides and hazardous waste and mishandled confidential customer records.

The settlement was reached by Jones Dickson, 28 other California district attorneys and the Los Angeles city attorney. The companies are collectively identified as Terminix in the settlement.

District attorney investigators examining Terminix facilities throughout California between 2021 and 2024 found hundreds of pesticides and other hazardous-waste items that had allegedly been disposed of unlawfully, according to Jones Dickson’s office.

The investigation also found instances in which Terminix allegedly failed to properly manage and dispose of private customer records, violating California laws intended to protect confidential consumer information.

Terminix cooperated with prosecutors after being notified of the alleged violations, the district attorney’s office said. As part of the settlement, the company agreed to strengthen its policies and procedures governing the handling and disposal of pesticides, hazardous materials and customer records.

The new requirements are intended to prevent prohibited waste from being placed in ordinary trash receptacles or sent to facilities not authorized to receive it. Terminix must also improve safeguards for confidential customer information before records are discarded.

Terminix operates five Alameda County locations under the Terminix and Western Exterminator Company names. The facilities are located in Hayward, Pleasanton and Union City.

Alameda County will receive $160,000 from the statewide settlement for civil penalties and reimbursement of investigative costs.

The agreement resolves the prosecutors’ claims against the companies and requires Terminix to maintain stronger waste-management and privacy protections at its California operations.

Jones Dickson announced the settlement Sept. 4.

By Bo Tefu, California Black Media

California’s legal cannabis market has generated nearly $8.4 billion in tax revenue since 2018 as the state ramps up enforcement against illegal drugs and touts declines in crime, Gov. Gavin Newsom announced on Sept. 2.

The cannabis revenue includes nearly $4.5 billion in excise taxes and nearly $3.4 billion in sales taxes. In the second quarter of 2026 alone, cannabis retailers remitted $261.7 million in cannabis excise and sales tax revenue.

The state uses cannabis revenue to support programs including childcare and early childhood development, youth substance abuse prevention, medical research and environmental recovery.

“We are building a legal cannabis market that generates billions for Californians, and going after the illicit operators who undermine it,” said Newsom. “That’s public safety: protect consumers, support the businesses playing by the rules, and put the revenue to work in our communities.”

California is also targeting illegal intoxicating products outside the regulated cannabis market. State officials have removed more than 15,000 illegal hemp, kratom, and 7-hydroxymitragynine, or 7-OH, products from store shelves.

The enforcement effort resulted in the removal of 7,403 illegal hemp products and 7,888 kratom and 7-OH products. Officials reported compliance rates above 97% among Alcoholic Beverage Control licensees inspected for both categories.

The state has warned that kratom and 7-OH products have been linked to addiction, overdose and other serious health risks.

California is also using its law enforcement resources to target violent crime, drug trafficking and other criminal activity. Since 2023, CHP Crime Suppression Teams have made 15,197 arrests, recovered 7,042 stolen vehicles and seized 656 illicit firearms.

Since the teams expanded to six regions statewide in August 2025, they have also confiscated nearly 1.7 million grams of illegal drugs, including about 108 kilograms of fentanyl.

“Over the past few years, our Crime Suppression Teams have demonstrated the value of proactive, intelligence-driven enforcement,” CHP Commissioner Sean Duryee said.

The Newsom administration says the efforts are part of a broader public safety strategy that combines regulation, enforcement, prevention and partnerships with local agencies.

California has also reported declines in major crime categories since 2024, including an 18.6% drop in homicides and a 25.8% decline in motor vehicle theft.

California officials say the combination of a regulated cannabis market, targeted enforcement and state-local law enforcement partnerships is helping protect consumers, disrupt illicit drug activity and improve public safety across the state.

By Tamara Shiloh

Henry Ossian Flipper’s life is a remarkable story of insistence, achievement, injustice, and ultimately vindication. Born enslaved on March 21, 1856, in Thomasville, Georgia, Flipper rose from the restrictions of slavery to become the first African American to graduate from the United States Military Academy at West Point. His accomplishments extended far beyond military service; he later became a respected engineer, surveyor, author, translator, and government official.

After the Civil War, Flipper’s family settled in Atlanta, where education became central to his future. He attended schools established for African American children by the American Missionary Association and later studied at Atlanta University. In 1873, Congressman James C. Freeman of Georgia nominated Flipper for admission to West Point. He entered the academy that July.

Flipper’s four years at West Point were extremely difficult. Because of racism, he experienced harassment and almost complete social isolation from many of his fellow cadets. Nevertheless, he succeeded academically and graduated on June 14, 1877, ranking 50th in a class of 76. His graduation represented a historic breakthrough for African Americans in the United States military.

Commissioned as a second lieutenant, Flipper was assigned to the 10th U.S. Cavalry, one of the famed African American regiments known as the Buffalo Soldiers. At Fort Sill in Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, Flipper served as an engineer, surveyor, construction supervisor, quartermaster, and commissary officer. One of his most lasting engineering accomplishments was a drainage system that eliminated pools of stagnant water around the fort and helped reduce mosquito-breeding areas. The system became known as “Flipper’s Ditch,” and portions of it remain associated with Fort Sill today.

Flipper’s promising military career ended abruptly in 1881 when he was accused of embezzling commissary funds. A court-martial acquitted him of embezzlement, but convicted him of conduct unbecoming of an officer. The Army dismissed him in 1882. The circumstances surrounding his punishment would later be widely regarded as unjust and influenced by the racial discrimination of the period.

Rather than allowing his dismissal to define his life, Flipper built an extraordinary civilian career. He became a civil and mining engineer and surveyor, working extensively throughout the American Southwest and Mexico. He established an engineering office in Nogales, Arizona, became knowledgeable about Spanish and Mexican land law, and later worked for the federal government, including service connected with the Department of Justice and the Department of the Interior.

Flipper died in Atlanta in 1940, but efforts to restore his reputation continued for decades. In 1976, the Army changed his dismissal to an honorable discharge. Then, on February 19, 1999, President Bill Clinton granted Flipper a posthumous presidential pardon.

Today, Henry Ossian Flipper is remembered because his life helped open doors for generations of African American military officers, engineers, and public servants who followed him.

By Tanya Dennis

Victims’ rights are also a priority for Ursula Jones Dickson

“I don’t like it when people say ‘my office.’ It doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the people.”

That philosophy is at the heart of Ursula Jones Dickson’s approach to leading the Alameda County District Attorney’s Office. Asked whether one person can rebuild an office that has experienced years of change, disruption and a massive backlog of cases, she said the answer is ‘yes,’ but only with time, focus and a willingness to change priorities.

“One person can affect policy that changes the office,” Jones Dickson said.

For her, one of the most urgent priorities is gun violence, an issue she says has deeply affected Black communities for generations.

“Gun violence has always been a concern in the Black community,” she said. “We all have a visceral reaction to a helicopter because it often means there has been a chase or gun violence.”

Jones Dickson said gun violence is personal to her because it has hurt both her and her community. “I take it personally,” she said.

She worries that America, and particularly its young people, are becoming desensitized to violence. School shootings and repeated lockdowns are leaving children with experiences previous generations never imagined.

“We can’t act like this isn’t affecting our children,” she said. “When schools become places where shootings take place, they are affected in a different way.”

She believes the community has become dangerously accustomed to guns and violence.

“We have to stop normalizing guns,” she said. “We have so many guns and so many people with guns.”

Perhaps one of the most disturbing changes she sees is the way ordinary disagreements can now become deadly.

“Nobody fights anymore,” she said. “They kill.”

Jones Dickson said the question communities must ask themselves is: “When gun violence becomes a part of the community, how many vigils and how many marches can we stand?”

At the same time, she is determined that victims’ voices will not be lost in the criminal justice system.

“I sit with victims on a regular basis,” she said. “There isn’t a week that goes by that I don’t sit down with a victim’s family and hear them ask why a case has not been charged.”

Victims often need far more than updates about a court case. They need assistance navigating the criminal justice system, counseling, burial assistance and, sometimes, simply someone to sit with them during one of the most painful moments of their lives.

“Victims’ rights have been pushed aside,” Jones Dickson said. “What I want to leave to this office is that victims’ voices will be heard. I don’t care whose toes I step on. Victims will be heard.”

The challenge, however, is enormous. Her legacy is to help victims feel seen and protected.

The office is working through a significant backlog of serious cases while trying to rebuild an experienced, well-trained staff. Jones Dickson said years of disruption, including the impact of COVID and frequent leadership changes, left attorneys needing additional training and contributed to delays.

“There have been three district attorneys in four years,” she said. “Every district attorney wants to build their own culture.”

Her goal is to create a stable office with skilled prosecutors who understand their responsibilities and can move cases through the courts. She emphasized that the work is not simply about winning cases.

“It is our job to prove a case beyond a reasonable doubt,” she said. “Just because law enforcement brings us a case doesn’t mean we can prove it.”

Jones Dickson also believes rebuilding public safety requires rebuilding relationships between law enforcement and the community.

Residents have told her they sometimes see police cars drive through their neighborhoods without officers getting out and speaking to residents.

“When police are in neighborhoods and stop and talk to kids, there is a connection,” she said. “We need more community-based relationships.”

By Krista Chan, Special to The Post

The legacy of lynchings and racial terror in the American South continues in 2026 in a spate of suspicious deaths of young African Americans across the region. Local authorities have perpetually underinvestigated and even covered up these cases.

The most prominent recent case is that of Nolan Wells, an 18-year-old Black man whose body was found on July 6 on Horn Island, off the Mississippi Gulf Coast, after a Fourth of July trip with three white friends.

The NAACP announced its formal involvement in the case on Aug. 17, joining the legal team representing Wells’ family alongside prominent civil rights attorney Ben Crump.

The family has raised questions about discrepancies in accounts of Wells’ final hours, including why his phone was found with one of the friends rather than with his body. An independent autopsy commissioned by the family found that his “manner of death remained undetermined.”

In what was likely a retaliatory act for speaking up about her son’s death, Wells’ mother, Christine Wonsley, faced anonymous attacks on her nursing license.

In a recent vigil commemorating Wells’ 19th birthday, Rev. Dr. Jamal Harrison Bryant said, “To go from Medgar Evers to Emmett Till, to Nolan Wells, the blood stops here. We came tonight to stop a blood cycle. We are tired of all of these innocent Black bodies being killed.”

In the notorious 1955 case of 14-year-old Emmett Till, Roy Bryant and J.W. Milam were acquitted by an all-white jury after torturing and murdering Till for allegedly whistling at a white woman in a Mississippi grocery store. While Till’s death is well-known for having galvanized the Civil Rights movement, thousands of lynchings of African Americans have gone unreported.

According to the Equal Justice Institute (EJI), 4,084 lynchings of African Americans occurred in the 12 Southern states from 1877 to 1950, and not a single white person was convicted of murder during this period.

The Congressional Black Caucus has also thrown its weight behind the Wells family, sending a letter to U.S. Attorney General Todd Blanche and FBI Director Kash Patel, urging the Department of Justice (DOJ) to launch an independent federal review of the case. This request faces the challenge of a hostile environment towards racial justice at the DOJ.

Under the Trump administration’s attacks on Diversity, Equity & Inclusion (DEI), the DOJ has focused primarily on litigating employers for hiring underrepresented minorities.

Though Nolan Wells’ case has reached headlines today, the deaths of other young African Americans across the South remain under-reported and under-investigated.  Crump is simultaneously handling a portfolio of other cases involving the deaths of young Black men, namely Daniel Erving and Tyler Smith – 18-year-old Black men who died within three months of each other.

Erving of Sachse, Texas, died on April 14 at Lake Ray Hubbard after jumping from a railroad bridge with friends. His body was recovered four days later, and his death was ruled an accidental drowning—a finding his mother disputes. “The autopsy report shows my son had an unobstructed airway, so my son did not drown,” Tameca Erving said. In July, two individuals were arrested and charged with tampering with physical evidence after allegedly discarding Erving’s clothing and cell phone.

Smith of Lexington, Kentucky, died on July 4 after what police described as an accidental self-inflicted gunshot wound. His family has strongly disputed that account. According to a Lexington Police Department citation, the firearm officers recovered did not match the shell casing found at the scene.

A 20-year-old man has been charged with tampering with physical evidence in connection with the shooting. “For 17 days, my sons and I worked tirelessly investigating everything on our own. The police department gave us nothing, absolutely nothing,” Smith’s grandmother said.

Crump has framed all three cases as part of a troubling pattern requiring national attention.

Earlier this month, Tasia Fortune, a 29-year-old Black woman and mother of four, was found hanging from a tree in the backyard of a vacant home in Jackson, Mississippi, on Aug. 3. Her mother, Christy Spivey, has insisted that her daughter did not take her own life.

The county where Fortune’s body was found was the site of 11 known lynchings between 1895 and 1908, and nearby Hinds County saw 34 lynchings between 1835 and 1934. Unfortunately, this terror cannot be relegated to the history books as Fortune’s case follows two other incidents of African Americans being found hanging from trees in Mississippi within a year.

In September 2025, Demartravion “Trey” Reed was found hanging from a tree at Delta State University in Cleveland, Mississippi. On the same day, Cory Zukatis was found hanging from a tree in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Both deaths were ruled as suicides by local authorities.

As of this publication, Fortune’s case is still under investigation by local authorities, and the DOJ and FBI have remained silent about Wells’ case.

Krista Chan is a civic tech professional and Chinese medicine student in Oakland. She writes and organizes around issues of global peace and racial justice.

NC HEALTH NEWS – Inside North Carolina prisons, incarcerated people have long turned to fellow prisoners for guidance about faith, conflict, grief, addiction, and simply how to navigate life behind bars.

An increasing number of those people are “field ministers” — incarcerated men who have earned a four-year bachelor’s degree in pastoral ministry and received training in counseling and other skills.

After graduation, the field ministers — many serving life sentences — are deployed to prisons across the state in teams of three to six, where they work alongside prison chaplains and other staff.

The role comes with an unusual degree of trust and access. Field ministers can walk into a housing block and make rounds to check on people. They can sit with men struggling with grief, addiction, mental illness or the challenges of being separated from loved ones. They can visit men in solitary confinement, counsel peers, provide hospice care and teach classes.

Their work has made a difference, said Alpha Herring, an employee at Nash Correctional Institution who oversees programs there.

Ten years ago, when someone came to him with an issue, he might spend 30 minutes talking with them. Now, he doesn’t always have to be the one responding.

“We trust them enough that when a field minister just shows up at a block, no one questions them as to why they were there,” Herring said. “We trust them enough to know that they’re going to go forth, fulfill the vision and do the work that’s been assigned to their hands.

“They help us go home daily because they intervene in situations that we would never know about,” Herring continued.

The program launched at Nash Correctional in August 2017 in partnership with Judson College, a Wake Forest-based seminary, and the nonprofit Game Plan for Life, which describes itself as training men “to be influential leaders within their own faith tradition.” It’s modeled after a similar prison ministry program at Louisiana State Penitentiary, known as Angola.

Since then, more than 80 men have graduated — more than 60 of whom now are serving as field ministers at 16 prisons. Another 87 men are completing their education at Nash Correctional. The first cohort of 19 female field ministers is also earning degrees; the program launched at North Carolina Correctional Institution for Women in January 2024.

Nash Correctional Warden Talena Lee told NC Health News that she has seen the field ministers change prison culture, and they have challenged her and other prison officials to reconsider “what they can be and what they can do.”

“You cannot pour all the time and energy into every single person,” Lee explained, noting that the 654-bed prison has fewer than 12 case managers, including supervisors. “They come alongside and help us in our jobs. We consider [the field ministers] a tool in our toolbox — one that we use quite frequently, and it’s made the population here better.”

Creating a pipeline

Rocky Wright, director of prison programs at Judson College, said the North Carolina Field Minister Program is in high demand. Each year, he said more than 100 people apply for up to 30 slots.

Participants must have already earned a high school diploma or GED, completed at least one year without any infractions and have at least 10 years left to serve on their sentence. Wright said the program looks for people who demonstrate humility, compassion, and a willingness to serve.

“We’re looking for guys who have servant hearts, who want to serve others,” Wright said.

Students take a full college course load year-round, including coursework in liberal arts, biblical studies, and counseling.

After earning their degrees, field ministers are asked to serve for at least four years, though Wright said participation is voluntary.

How field ministers work can vary from prison to prison. Despite being unordained, some work alongside prison chaplains. Others work more closely with program staff. At intake facilities, field ministers help newly incarcerated people acclimate to the prison environment, and they serve as mentors during their first weeks. Many also teach classes, such as Thinking for a Change, a therapeutic approach to changing negative behaviors, and Father Accountability, which teaches positive parenting. They also lead Bible studies.

Wright said one field minister team at Harnett Correctional Institution even came up with a nonviolence initiative that lessened violence and fights at the facility.

Finding new purpose

Barry Mintz, 21 years into serving a life sentence without parole, was part of the field minister program’s first cohort. He said he originally joined for selfish reasons, thinking it would look good and help his chances of release.

But as he studied, Mintz said, his understanding of his faith changed, along with his understanding of himself and his purpose.

“My journey to this moment right now is a testament to the transformative power of faith and education,” he said during an Aug. 19 event at Nash Correctional that celebrated 10 years of the program.

Mintz said he’s helped countless people. Some days, that means lending an ear to someone who is in a mental health crisis or going through a wrenching life event.

He recalled one encounter that has stuck with him: an incarcerated man whose father died the day before he was released from prison. Based on his training, Mintz said he felt equipped to offer theological answers, grief counseling and simply a warm embrace.

“In that moment, I realized that we weren’t just equipped to think well, to read well, to write well and speak well — but we had been equipped to love well,” Mintz said.

‘Part of the community’

Field ministers lean into their own transformations and shared experiences to reach other incarcerated men.

“Our real effectiveness comes from being a part of the community,” said Timothy Johnson, another member of the first cohort of field ministers. “They know they can trust us with their problems because we’re living with the same problems. We don’t talk to them about how hard it is to be locked up and go home at the end of the day.”

Field ministers told NC Health News they often encounter men who want to change but don’t know how — and they can step in with guidance and support.

Jimmy Smith, a field minister at Caswell Correctional Center who graduated in the program’s second cohort, said he uses his own testimony to show how much change is possible.

“I’ve been incarcerated 31 years, so a lot of guys knew me when I was in my craziness, and they knew the transitions that I had made over the years and became the preacher,” Smith said. “I had to explain to them that I thought like a child, but then I became a man, and there are qualifications of being a man, and it’s responsibility, accountability, and reliability. Walking in that, it gives you parameters and things you won’t do anymore.”

William Singletary described getting support and mentorship from field ministers at Granville Correctional Institution.

“Their presence was not only uplifting but instrumental in my growth and development as an individual and a man of faith,” Singletary said. “Exposure to these ministers opened my eyes to the profound impact we can have on one another’s lives, even in the most unlikely of places. I watched as they poured their energy into helping others find peace, joy and purpose amidst their struggles.”

Singletary wanted to do the same. He’s studying to become a field minister himself.

Matthew Grant, a field minister student in his junior year, was sent to prison in 2004. He said he’s ready to draw on his own experiences to counsel others.

“I’ve lost family too,” he said. “I’ve been in the hole too. I’ve been depressed. I’ve been suicidal. I’ve been angry before. I’ve been in fights before. I’ve been to some of the most violent prisons in the state. I’ve done that. I’ve seen what that gets you, and I’ve been able to come out on the other side.”

Filling critical needs

The field ministers aren’t intended to replace prison chaplains or other staff, but to extend their reach.

Sarah Jobe, director of Chaplaincy Services at the N.C. Department of Adult Correction, said the department has about 47 chaplains serving across the state — about one-third of whom are community-funded through churches and other grants. That leaves some prisons without a chaplain.

“People’s critical needs for conversations around hard topics do not always happen when a chaplain is on site,” Jobe said. “The field ministers are right there to be called at any time, and can really step in and be a witness and a presence inside of the dorms in a way that the chaplain cannot.”

The N.C. Department of Adult Correction funded eight new chaplain positions last year, Jobe said. Prison leaders have been working toward having at least one chaplain in each state prison, she said, in recognition that spiritual care and religious accommodations can shape prison environments and culture.

Jobe helps determine which facilities get field ministers. The biggest factor, she said, is staff buy-in and their willingness to provide field ministers with the support and autonomy they need to best serve. She said she’s got more facilities that want field ministers than there are available graduates.

“They can be radical change agents for good and serve in caregiving professions well and under incredibly difficult circumstances,” Jobe said.

N.C. Department of Adult Correction Secretary Leslie Cooley Dismukes said she “hands down, without a doubt” views the field minister program as the program with the greatest impact on the department’s population of nearly 33,000.

“This program allows us to bring in partners from the outside to reach you, and then it allows you, when you earn your yellow shirt, to reach everyone,” she said. “You are credible messengers. You are the people who can change lives.”

Jobe agrees and said their impact will only grow as more field ministers are deployed to prisons across the state in the coming years.

The impact has been tremendous on Timothy Johnson, one of the prison system’s first graduates.

He went to prison in 2005, sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. For many years, he said, that sentence defined his life story. But his work as a field minister changed his perspective.

“I feel like my story changed from life without parole, and that’s what defined me, to a life of purpose,” Johnson said. “Every day I wake up knowing I’m going to have some conversation with somebody that needs a little bit of hope, some inspiration that can feed off my story.”

Based on reporting by The Carolinian.