James Bandler

How radicals used the internet to inspire lethal violence — until authorities took them down

Reporting Highlights

  • A Global Network: White supremacists from around the world used Telegram to spread hateful content promoting murder and destruction in a community they called Terrorgram.
  • Spurred to Hate: ProPublica and FRONTLINE identified 35 crimes linked to Terrorgram, including bomb plots, stabbings and shootings.
  • A New Home: After several arrests of alleged Terrorgram members and reforms by Telegram, experts expect that white supremacists will find a new platform for their hate.

These highlights were written by the reporters and editors who worked on this story.

On Jan. 19, 2024, the sheriff of Jacksonville, Florida, released a 27-page manifesto left behind by Ryan Palmeter, a 21-year old white man who had murdered three Black people at a Dollar General store before turning the gun on himself.

The Florida Times-Union, a prominent local news outlet, said it would not be publishing the document, which it said used the N-word 183 times and had an “overall theme of white superiority.” T.K. Waters, the sheriff, said he had posted what he described as the “rantings of an isolated, hateful, madman” to keep his promise of public transparency. An attorney for one of the victims’ families urged the public “to not give Palmeter the satisfaction of publishing or distributing his manifesto,” saying it “contains not one redeemable thought.”

Thousands of miles away, in Elk Grove, California, Dallas Humber saw Palmeter’s view of the world as perfect for her audience of online neo-Nazis. Humber, a now-35-year-old woman with a penchant for dyeing her hair neon colors, was a leading voice in an online network of white supremacists who had coalesced in a dark corner of Telegram, a social media and messaging service with almost a billion users worldwide.

She and her comrades called this constellation of interlocking Telegram accounts Terrorgram. Their shared goal was to topple modern democracies through terrorism and sabotage and then replace them with all-white ethno-states.

Humber quickly turned Palmeter’s slur-riddled manifesto into an audiobook that she narrated in a monotone. Then she sent it into the world with her signature line:

“So, let’s get this party started, Terrorbros.”

The manifesto immediately began to spread, pinballing around the worldwide Terrorgram scene, which celebrated mass shooters like Palmeter as “saints.”

The Terrorgram story is part of a much larger 21st century phenomenon. Over the past two decades, massive social networks like X, Facebook and Telegram have emerged as a powerful force for both good and evil. The ability to connect with like-minded strangers helped fuel uprisings like the Arab Spring and Iran’s pro-democracy movements. But it has also aided extremists, including brutal jihadist organizations like the Islamic State group and white supremacists around the world.

Telegram, which is massively popular outside of the U.S., boasted an array of features that appealed to Humber and her fellow Terrorgammers. They could send encrypted direct messages, start big chat groups and create public channels to broadcast their messages. In the span of five years, they grew Terrorgram from a handful of accounts into a community with hundreds of chats and channels focused on recruiting would-be terrorists, sharing grisly videos and trading expertise on everything from assassination techniques to the best ways to sabotage water systems and electrical transmission lines. On one of her many accounts, Humber posted step-by-step instructions for making pipe bombs and synthesizing HMTD, a potent explosive.

Humber went by a series of usernames but was eventually publicly exposed by a group of California activists. ProPublica and FRONTLINE reviewed chat logs — some provided by the Australian anti-fascist research organization The White Rose Society — court records and Humber’s other digital accounts to independently confirm her identity.

U.S. prosecutors say Humber helped lead the Terrorgram Collective, a transnational organization that ran popular Terrorgram accounts, produced sophisticated works of propaganda and distributed an alleged hit list of potential assassination targets. She is currently facing a host of federal terrorism charges, along with another alleged Terrorgram leader, Matthew Allison, a 38-year-old DJ from Boise, Idaho. Both have pleaded not guilty.

To trace the rise and fall of Terrorgram, ProPublica and FRONTLINE obtained a trove of chat logs and got access to some of the extremists’ private channels, allowing reporters to track in real time their posts and relationships. We combed through legal documents, talked with law enforcement officials and researchers in six countries and interviewed a member of the collective in jail. Taken together, our reporting reveals new details about the Terrorgram Collective, showing how Humber and her compatriots were powerful social media influencers who, rather than peddling fashion or food, promoted murder and destruction.

The material illustrates the tension faced by every online platform: What limits should be imposed on the things users post or discuss? For years, social networks like Facebook and X employed thousands of people to review and take down offensive content, from pornography to racist memes to direct incitement of violence. The efforts at content moderation prompted complaints, primarily from conservatives, that the platforms were censoring conservative views of the world.

Telegram was created in 2013 by Pavel Durov, a Russian-born technologist, and his brother Nikolai. Pavel Durov, a billionaire who posts pictures of himself on Instagram, baring his chiseled torso amid rock formations and sand dunes, became the face of the company. He marketed the platform as a free-speech-focused alternative to the Silicon Valley social media platforms, which in the mid-2010s had begun aggressively policing disinformation and racist and dehumanizing content. Telegram’s restrictions were far more lax than those of its competitors, and it quickly became a hub for hate as well as illegal activity like child sexual exploitation and gunrunning.

Our review of thousands of Terrorgram posts shows that the lack of content moderation was crucial to the spread of the collective’s violent content. Telegram’s largely hands-off approach allowed Humber and her alleged confederates to reach an international audience of disaffected young people.

They encouraged these followers to turn their violent thoughts into action. And some of them did.

ProPublica and FRONTLINE identified 35 crimes linked to Terrorgram, including bomb plots, stabbings and shootings. Each case involved an individual who posted in Terrorgram chats, followed Terrorgram accounts or was a member of an organized group whose leaders participated in the Terrorgram community.

One of the crimes was a 2022 shooting at an LGBTQ+ bar in Bratislava, Slovakia, that left two people dead and another injured. In an earlier story, ProPublica and FRONTLINE detailed how the shooter, Juraj Krajčík, was coached to kill over three years by members of the Terrorgram Collective, a process that started when he was just 16 years old.

Radka Trokšiarová survived the Bratislava attack after being shot twice in the leg. “Sometimes I catch myself wishing to be able to ask the gunman: ‘Why did you do it? What was the point and purpose of destroying so many lives?’” she said.

Telegram declined repeated requests to make its executives available for interviews and would not answer specific questions about Humber and other Terrorgram leaders. But in a statement, the company said, “Calls for violence from any group are not tolerated on our platform.”

The company said that Telegram’s “significant growth has presented unique moderation challenges due to the sheer volume and diversity of content uploaded to the platform,” but that since 2023 it has stepped up its moderation practices, using AI and a team of about 750 contractors. Telegram said it now “proactively monitors public content across the platform and takes down objectionable content before it reaches users and has a chance to be reported.”

Right-wing extremists were flocking to Telegram by 2019.

Many had been effectively exiled from major social media platforms such as Twitter and Facebook, which, in response to public pressure, had built vast “trust and safety” teams tasked with purging hateful and violent content. The companies had also begun using a shared database of hashes — essentially digital fingerprints — to quickly identify and delete videos and images produced by terror groups.

Even 8chan, an anonymous message board frequented by extremists, had begun pulling down particularly egregious posts and videos. Users there openly discussed moving to Telegram. One lengthy thread encouraged white supremacists to start using Telegram as a tool for communicating with like-minded people and spreading radical ideas to those they considered “normies.” “It offers a clean UI” — user interface — “and the best privacy protection we can get for this sort of social,” wrote one 8chan poster.

Pavel Durov, the 40-year-old Telegram co-founder, had positioned himself as a stalwart champion of privacy and free expression, arguing that “privacy is more important than the fear of terrorism.” After the Iranian government blocked access to the app in that country in 2018, he called free speech an “undeniable human right.”

To the extremists, Telegram and Durov seemed to be promising to leave them and their posts alone — no matter how offensive and alarming others might find their messages.

Among those who joined the online migration were Pavol Beňadik and Matthew Althorpe. The two men quickly began testing Telegram’s limits by posting content explicitly aimed at inspiring acts of white supremacist terrorism.

Then 23, Althorpe came from a small town on the Niagara River in Ontario, Canada; Beňadik, who was 19 at the time, lived in a village in Western Slovakia and went by the online handle Slovakbro.

Both were believers in a doctrine called militant accelerationism, which has become popular with neo-Nazis over the past decade, the chat logs show. Militant accelerationists want to speed the collapse of society by committing destabilizing terrorist attacks and mass killings. They have frequently targeted their perceived enemies, including people of color, Muslims, Jews, gays and lesbians.

Telegram gave them the ability to share tactics and targets with thousands of potential terrorists around the globe. Day after day they urged their followers to go out and kill as many people as possible to advance the white supremacist cause.

Beňadik had been immersed in the extremist scene since at least 2017, bouncing from one online space to the next, a review of his online life shows. He’d spent time on Facebook, Twitter, Discord, Gab and 4chan, another low-moderation message board.

Beňadik would later tell authorities that he was inspired by Christopher Cantwell, a New Hampshire white supremacist known as the “Crying Nazi” for posting a video of himself sobbing after learning that he might be arrested for his actions during the deadly 2017 rally in Charlottesville, Virginia. From Slovakia, Beňadik listened to Cantwell’s podcast, which featured long racist diatribes and interviews with white nationalist figures like Richard Spencer.

By 2019, Beňadik had created a chat group on Telegram in which he encouraged his followers to firebomb businesses, torch the homes of antifascists and seek out radioactive material to build dirty bombs and detonate them in American cities.

Althorpe started a channel and uploaded a steady stream of violent propaganda, the Telegram chat logs show. He named his channel Terrorwave Refined.

“Direct action against the system,” Althorpe argued in one post, is “the ONLY path toward total aryan victory.” Althorpe often shared detailed material that could aid in carrying out terrorist attacks, such as instructions for making the explosive thermite and plans for building assault rifles that couldn’t be traced by law enforcement.

Other sizable social media platforms or online forums would have detected and deleted the material posted by Althorpe and Beňadik. But on Telegram, the posts stayed up.

Soon others were creating similar content. In the summer of 2019, the duo began circulating online flyers listing allied Telegram chat groups and channels. Early on the network was small, just seven accounts.

Beňadik and Althorpe began calling this new community Terrorgram. The moniker stuck.

“I decided to become a fucking content producer,” Beňadik would later say on a podcast called HateLab, which has since been deleted. “I saw a niche and I decided to fill it.”

They were becoming influencers.

As the pair grew their audience on Telegram, they studied a massacre that had occurred a few months earlier in New Zealand.

A heavily armed man had murdered 51 Muslims at two mosques, livestreaming the carnage from a GoPro camera strapped to his ballistic helmet. To explain his motivations, Brenton Tarrant had drafted a 74-page treatise arguing that white people were being wiped out in an ongoing genocide. He described the Muslim worshippers he murdered as “invaders” and invoked a conspiracy theory claiming they were part of a plot to replace people of European ancestry with nonwhite people.

Tarrant’s slaughter had sent a surge of fear through New Zealand society. And his written and visual propaganda, which was aimed at inspiring more violence, had spread widely. Researchers would later discover that more than 12,000 copies of the video had been posted online in the 24 hours after the massacre.

Within the Terrorgram community, Tarrant became an icon.

On Telegram, Beňadik and Althorpe dubbed him a “saint” — an honorific they bestowed on someone who killed in the name of the white supremacist movement.

The two men saw Tarrant’s crime as a template for future attacks. Over and over, the duo encouraged their subscribers to follow Tarrant’s example and become the next saint.

For extremism researchers, the rise of the Terrorgram community was alarming. “Neo-Nazis, white nationalists and antigovernment extremists are publishing volumes of propaganda advocating terrorism and mass shootings on Telegram,” warned an investigator with the Southern Poverty Law Center in June 2019. The investigator said he was unable to even reach anyone at Telegram at the time to discuss the matter.

By August 2019, the Terrorgram network had grown to nearly 20 chat groups and channels. The Terrorwave Refined channel had ballooned to over 2,000 subscribers. “Thanks to everyone who helped us hit 2,000!” wrote Althorpe in a post. “HAIL THE SAINTS. HAIL HOLY TERROR.”

In addition to his chat groups, Beňadik created an array of channels to distribute propaganda and guides to weaponry and explosives. One of the most popular attracted nearly 5,000 subscribers.

“He was, I would say, a key architect behind Terrorgram,” said Rebecca Weiner, deputy commissioner for intelligence and counterterrorism at the New York Police Department. Weiner’s unit spent years monitoring the Terrorgram scene and assisted the FBI in investigating cases linked to the community.

When compared to mainstream social media, the numbers were tiny. But looked at a different way, they were stunning: Althorpe and Beňadik had built an online community of thousands of people dedicated to celebrating and committing acts of terrorism.

One of them was Jarrett Smith, a U.S. Army private based at Fort Riley in Kansas who was a regular in Beňadik’s chat group during the fall of 2019.

A beefy guy who enjoyed posting photos of himself in military gear, Smith had a love of explosives — he urged his fellow Terrorgrammers to bomb electric power stations, cell towers and natural gas lines — and contempt for federal law enforcement agents. “Feds deserve to be shot. They are the enemy,” he wrote in one chat thread.

Days after making the post, Smith unknowingly began communicating with a federal agent who was posing as an extremist.

In a string of direct messages, the undercover agent asked for Smith’s help in assassinating government officials in Texas. “Got a liberal texas mayor in my sights!” wrote the agent.

Happy to oblige, Smith provided the agent with a detailed step-by-step guide to building a potent improvised explosive device capable of destroying a car, as well as how-tos for several other types of bombs.

He was arrested that September and later pleaded guilty to charges that he shared instructions for making bombs and homemade napalm. Smith was sentenced to 30 months in prison.

The Terrorgram community was becoming a significant concern for law enforcement.

An October 2019 intelligence bulletin noted: “Telegram has become increasingly popular with WSEs” — white supremacist extremists — “due to frequent suspensions and censorship of their accounts across multiple social media platforms. Currently, WSEs are able to maintain relatively extensive networks of public channels some of which have thousands of members with minimal disruptions.”

The bulletin was produced by the Central Florida Intelligence Exchange, an intelligence-sharing center staffed by federal, state and local law enforcement personnel. Today, that five-page document — which was not meant for public dissemination — seems prescient.

It noted that while jihadist organizations and white supremacists were posting similar content on the platform, Telegram was treating the two camps in “vastly different” ways. The company, which had been headquartered in the United Arab Emirates since 2017, routinely shut down accounts created by the Islamic State group but it would “rarely remove WSE content, and typically only for high-profile accounts or posts that have received extensive media attention.”

By 2020, a pattern emerged: When Telegram did take down an account, it was often quickly replaced by a new one — sometimes with a near-identical name.

When the company deleted Althorpe’s Terrorwave Refined channel, he simply started a new one called Terrorwave Revived and began posting the same material. Within seven hours, he had attracted 1,000 followers, according to a post he wrote at the time.

The Terrorgrammers saw the modest attempts at content moderation as a betrayal by Pavel Durov and Telegram. “You could do anything on 2019 Telegram,” wrote Beňadik in a 2021 post. “I told people how to plan a genocide,” he said, noting that the company did nothing about those posts.

Apple, Google and Microsoft distribute the Telegram app through their respective online stores, giving them a measure of control over what their users could see on the platform. As the Terrorgram community attracted more notice from the outside world, including extremism researchers and law enforcement, these tech giants began restricting certain Terrorgram chats and channels, making them impossible to view.

Still, the Terrorgrammers found ways to evade the blackouts and shared the work-arounds with their followers. The network eventually grew to include hundreds of chats and channels.

The Center for Monitoring, Analysis and Strategy, a German organization that studies online extremism, “has tracked about 400 channels and 200 group chats which are considered part of the Terrorgram community on Telegram,” said Jennefer Harper, a researcher with the center.

As the content spread, so did crime. Using court records, news clips and Telegram data collected by Open Measures, a research platform that monitors social media, ProPublica and FRONTLINE identified a string of crimes tied to Terrorgram.

Nicholas Welker, who was active in the Terrorgram community, is serving a 44-month prison sentence for making death threats toward a Brooklyn-based journalist reporting on a neo-Nazi group.

A Missouri man who planned to blow up a hospital with a vehicle bomb was killed during a shootout with FBI agents in 2020; his neo-Nazi organization had posted in Beňadik’s chat group and was using it to enlist new members.

The most deadly known crime stemming from Terrorgram occurred in 2022 Brazil, where a teenager who was allegedly in contact with Humber shot 15 people, killing four. The teen was later hailed as a saint by the Terrorgrammers.

While Terrorgram started as a loose collection of chats and channels, by 2021 Althorpe and Beňadik had created a more formal organization, according to Canadian court records and interviews with law enforcement sources in Slovakia. Their small, clandestine group was the Terrorgram Collective.

The organization began producing more sophisticated content — books, videos and a roster of alleged assassination targets — and distributing the material to thousands of followers.

Court documents, a U.S. State Department bulletin and Telegram logs show that over the next three years, the collective would come to include at least six other people in five countries.

Over 14 months, the group generated three books and repeatedly posted them in PDF form on Terrorgram accounts. Ranging in length from 136 to 268 pages, the books offer a raft of specific advice for planning a terror attack, including how to sabotage railroads, electrical substations and other critical infrastructure. The publications also celebrated a pantheon of white supremacist saints — mass murderers including Timothy McVeigh, who in 1995 bombed a federal building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people.

“That combination of tactical guidance plus propaganda is something that we’d seen a lot of coming out of ISIS in years past,” said Weiner of the NYPD. She added that the books are filled with “splashy graphics” designed to appeal to young people.

“It’s a real manual on how to commit an act of terrorism,” Jakub Gajdoš, who helped oversee an investigation of Beňadik and Terrorgram for Slovakia’s federal police agency, said of one book. “A guide for killing people.”

At least two Americans were involved in creating one of the books, according to U.S. federal prosecutors: Humber and Allison, the DJ from Boise, Idaho. The chat logs show they were both prolific creators and influencers in the Terrorgram community who frenetically generated new content, including videos, audiobooks, graphics and calendars, which they posted on an array of channels.

Allison made around 120 Terrorgram videos, including editing “White Terror,” a quasi-documentary glorifying more than 100 white murderers and terrorists. Narrated by Humber, the video starts with the man who assassinated Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968 and concludes with the young man who shot and killed 10 Black shoppers in a Buffalo supermarket in 2022.

These “white men and women of action have taken it upon themselves to wage war against the system and our racial enemies,” Humber intones. “To the saints of tomorrow watching this today, know that when you succeed you will be celebrated with reverence and your sacrifice will not be in vain.”

The pair also allegedly helped create “The List,” a detailed hit list of American politicians, corporate executives, academics and others, according to court documents. The List was shared on a series of dedicated Telegram channels, as well as an array of other accounts, some made to look like legitimate news aggregators. Each entry included a photo of the target and their home address.

It was an escalation — and from court documents it’s clear that The List captured the attention of U.S. law enforcement agents, who worried that it might trigger a wave of assassinations.

The collective’s books influenced a new generation of armed extremists, some of them in their teens.

One of these young disciples was Juraj Krajčík. The Slovakian student had joined Beňadik’s chat groups at the age of 16 and had become a frequent poster.

ProPublica and FRONTLINE obtained an extensive trove of Terrorgram chat logs that show how Beňadik mentored Krajčík and played a profound role in shaping his beliefs. Over the span of three years, Beňadik, Allison and Humber all urged the teen to take action, the chat logs show.

On the night of Oct. 12, 2022, Krajčík, armed with a handgun, opened fire on three people outside of Tepláreň, a small LGBTQ+ bar in Bratislava’s Old Town neighborhood, killing Juraj Vankulič and Matúš Horváth and wounding their friend Radka Trokšiarová.

“I was in terrible pain because the bullet went through my thighbone,” she recalled. “I am still in pain.”

Krajčík took off on foot, and hours later he killed himself in a grove of trees next to a busy roadway. He was 19.

Six thousand miles away in California, Humber promptly began making celebratory posts. Krajčík, she exclaimed, had achieved sainthood.

Shortly after the Bratislava attack, Humber messaged Allison on Telegram, according to court records recently filed by federal prosecutors in the U.S.

She told him she’d been communicating with another Terrorgrammer who was planning a racially motivated school shooting.The attack occurred weeks later in Aracruz, Brazil, when a 16-year-old wearing a skull mask shot 15 people at two schools, killing four. Another saint.

On a Terrogram channel, Humber posted a ZIP file with info on the attack, including 17 photos and four videos. The massacre, she noted, was motivated by “Hatred of non-Whites.” And she made a pitch tailored for the next would-be teenage terrorist: The assailant, she wrote in a post, would get a “SLAP ON THE WRIST” prison sentence due to his age.

While Krajčík was planning his attack, law enforcement agencies in Europe, the U.S. and Canada were quietly pursuing the leaders of the Terrorgram Collective.

Beňadik was the first to fall. Using information collected by the FBI, investigators in Slovakia arrested him in May 2022 while he was on break from college. He’d been studying computer science at the Brno University of Technology in the Czech Republic.

While in jail, Beňadik admitted his involvement with Terrorgram. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to six years in prison shortly after the Tepláreň attacks.

Describing Beňadik as “extremely intelligent,” prosecutor Peter Kysel said he believes the student never met with any of his fellow Terrorgrammers in person and didn’t even know their real names. “All the contacts was in the cyberspace,” he said.

But Beňadik misled investigators about his connection to Krajčík, saying they had one brief interaction, via direct message. “This was the only communication,” said Daniel Lipšic, the prosecutor who investigated the Tepláreň attack.

In fact, Beňadik and Krajčík had many conversations, the logs obtained by ProPublica and FRONTLINE show. The pair repeatedly discussed targeting Tepláreň, with the older man writing that killing the bar patrons with a nail bomb wasn’t brutal enough. Krajčík posted frequently about his animus toward gays and lesbians, which Beňadik encouraged.

Alleged Terrorgram Collective co-founder Althorpe is also in custody. Canadian prosecutors have accused him of helping to produce the Terrorgram Collective publications, through which they say he “promoted genocide” and “knowingly instructed” others to carry out “terrorist activity.”

At the time of his arrest, Althorpe was running a small company selling components for semi-automatic rifles such as AK-47s and AR-15s. He has pleaded not guilty and is awaiting trial.

In the U.S., Humber and Allison are facing trial on charges including soliciting people to kill government officials through The List, distributing bomb-making instructions and providing material support to terrorists. Prosecutors say the two have been involved with the Terrorgram community since 2019.

The 37-page indictment says they incited the attack on Tepláreň, noting that Krajčík “had frequent conversations with HUMBER, ALLISON, and other members of the Terrorgram Collective” before carrying out the crime.

In a jailhouse interview that Allison gave against his lawyer’s advice, he admitted he produced content for the collective, including editing the “White Terror” video. Still, Allison insisted he never incited others to commit crimes and claimed The List wasn’t meant to be a guide for assassins. He said it was merely an exercise in doxxing, similar to how right-wing activists are outed by anti-fascist activists.

All of his Telegram posts are protected under the First Amendment, according to a motion filed by his lawyers. They argue that while he was active in Telegram chats and channels, there is nothing in the government’s evidence to support the claim that he was a Terrorgram leader. “The chats are mostly a chaotic mix of hyperbole and posts without any recognized leader,” his lawyers wrote in the motion.

Looking pale and grim, Humber declined to be interviewed when ProPublica and FRONTLINE visited the Sacramento County Jail. Her attorney declined to comment on the case.

During the last days of the Biden administration, in January 2025, the State Department officially designated the Terrorgram Collective a global terrorist organization, hitting three more collective leaders in South Africa, Croatia and Brazil with sanctions. In February, Australia announced its own sanctions on Terrorgram, the first time that country’s government has imposed counterterrorism financing sanctions on an organization that is entirely based online.

“The group has been majorly impacted in terms of its activity. We’ve seen many chats being voluntarily closed as people feel at risk of legal action, and we’ve seen generally the amount of discourse really reducing,” said Milo Comerford, an extremism expert at the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, a London-based nonprofit that tracks hate groups and disinformation. The “organizational capabilities of the Terrorgram Collective itself have been severely undermined.”

The demise of Terrorgram has coincided with reforms announced at Telegram in the wake of one co-founder’s arrest last year in France. Pavel Durov is charged with allowing criminal activity, including drug trafficking and child sexual abuse, to flourish on his platform. He has called the charges “misguided,” saying CEOs should not be held liable for the misuse of their platforms. He was ordered to remain in France during the ongoing investigation, and, depending on the outcome, could face trial next year.

In a statement, the company said, “Mr. Durov firmly denies all allegations.”

The company said it has always complied with the European Union’s laws. “It is absurd to suggest that Telegram’s owner is responsible for the actions of a negligible fraction (<0.01%) of its 950M+ active users.”

Still, after the arrest, the company announced a slew of reforms designed to make Telegram safer. It promised to police illegal content on the platform and share the IP addresses and phone numbers of alleged lawbreakers with authorities.

In response, white supremacists began to flee the platform.

Pete Simi, a sociology professor who studies extremism at Chapman University in Orange, California, said the incendiary ideas promoting race war and violence that animated the Terrorgram Collective will migrate to other platforms. “Especially given the broader climate that exists within our society,” Simi said. “There will be new Terrorgrams that take its place by another name, and we will continue to see this kind of extremism propagated through platforms of various sorts, not just Telegram.”

Today, many extremists are gathering on X, where owner Elon Musk has loosened content restrictions. White supremacists frequently post a popular Terrorgram slogan about killing all Black people. There are several Brenton Tarrant fan accounts, and some racist and antisemitic influencers who were previously banned now have hundreds of thousands of followers.

A review by ProPublica and FRONTLINE shows the company is removing some violent white supremacist content and suspending some extremist accounts. It also restricts the visibility of some racist and hateful posts by excluding them from search results or by adding a note to the post saying it violates X’s rules of community conduct. And we were unable to find posts on the platform that shared the bomb-making and terrorism manuals that had previously appeared on Telegram. The news organizations reached out to X multiple times but got no response.

In early March, a person who had a history of posting Nazi imagery shared a 21-second video lionizing Juraj Krajčík. The clip shows one of his victims lying dead on the pavement.

Tom Jennings, Annie Wong, Karina Meier and Max Maldonado of FRONTLINE, and Lukáš Diko of the Investigative Center of Jan Kuciak contributed reporting.

How an online network of extremists groomed a teen to kill

Reporting Highlights

  • Extremist Influencers: Neo-Nazi influencers on the social media platform Telegram created a network of chats and channels where they stoked racist, antisemitic and homophobic hate.
    • Targeted Teen: The influencers, known as the Terrorgram Collective, targeted a teen in Slovakia and groomed him for three years to kill.
    • Terrorgram Network: Juraj Krajčík subscribed to at least 49 extremist Telegram chats and channels, many of them nodes in the Terrorgram network, before he killed two people at an LGBTQ+ bar.

    Terrorgram Network: Juraj Krajčík subscribed to at least 49 extremist Telegram chats and channels, many of them nodes in the Terrorgram network, before he killed two people at an LGBTQ+ bar.

    These highlights were written by the reporters and editors who worked on this story.

    The teen entered the chat with a friendly greeting.

    “Hello lads,” he typed.

    “Sup,” came a reply, along with a graphic that read “KILL JEWS.” Another poster shared a GIF of Adolf Hitler shaking hands with Benito Mussolini. Someone else added a short video of a gay pride flag being set on fire. Eventually, the talk in the group turned to mass shootings and bombings.

    And so in August 2019, Juraj Krajčík, then a soft-faced 16-year-old with a dense pile of brown hair, immersed himself in a loose collection of extremist chat groups and channels on the massive social media and messaging platform Telegram. This online community, which was dubbed Terrorgram, had a singular focus: inciting acts of white supremacist terrorism.

    Over the next three years, Krajčík made hundreds — possibly thousands — of posts in Terrorgram chats and channels, where a handful of influential content creators steered the conversation toward violence. Day after day, post after post, these influencers cultivated Krajčík, who lived with his family in a comfortable apartment in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. They reinforced his hatreds, fine-tuned his beliefs and fed him tips, encouraging him to attack gay and Jewish people and political leaders and become, in their parlance, a “saint.”

    On Oct. 12, 2022, Krajčík, armed with his father’s .45-caliber handgun, opened fire on three people sitting outside an LGBTQ+ bar in Bratislava, killing two and wounding the third before fleeing the scene.

    That night, as police hunted for him, Krajčík spoke on the phone with Marek Madro, a Bratislava psychologist who runs a suicide hotline and mental health crisis team. “He hoped that what he had done would shake up society,” recalled Madro in an interview, adding that the teen was “very scared.”

    During the call, Krajčík kept repeating phrases from his manifesto, according to Madro. The 65-page document, written in crisp English and illustrated with graphics and photos, offered a detailed justification for his lethal actions. “Destroy the degenerates!” he wrote, before encouraging people to attack pride parades, gay and lesbian activists, and LGBTQ+ bars.

    Eventually Krajčík, standing in a small grove of trees alongside a busy roadway, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

    The next day, Terrorgram influencers were praising the killer and circulating a PDF of his manifesto on Telegram.

    “We thank him from the bottom of our hearts and will never forget his sacrifice,” stated one post written by a Terrorgram leader in California. “FUCKING HAIL, BROTHER!!!”

    The story of Krajčík’s march to violence shows the murderous reach of the online extremists, who operated outside the view of local law enforcement. To police at the time, the killings seemed like the act of a lone gunman rather than what they were: the culmination of a coordinated recruiting effort that spanned two continents.

    ProPublica and the PBS series FRONTLINE, along with the Slovakian newsroom Investigative Center of Jan Kuciak, pieced together the story behind Krajčík’s evolution from a troubled teenager to mass shooter. We identified his user name on Telegram, which allowed us to sift through tens of thousands of now-deleted Telegram posts that had not previously been linked to him. Our team retraced his final hours, interviewing investigators, experts and victims in Slovakia, and mapped the links between Krajčík and the extremists in Europe and the U.S. who helped to shape him.

    The Terrorgram network has been gutted in recent months by the arrests of its leaders in North America and Europe. Telegram declined repeated requests to make its executives available for interviews but in a statement said, “Calls for violence from any group are not tolerated on our platform.” The company also said that since 2023 it has stepped up moderation practices.

    Still, at a time when other mainstream social media companies such as X and Meta are cutting back on policing their online content, experts say the violent neo-Nazis that populated Telegram’s chats and channels will likely find an online home elsewhere.

    At first, Krajčík didn’t fit in with the Terrorgrammers. In one early post in 2019, he argued that the white nationalist movement would benefit from large public protests. The idea wasn’t well received.

    “Rallies won’t do shit,” replied one poster.

    Another told the teen that instead of organizing a rally, he should start murdering politicians, journalists and drag performers. “You need a mafia state of mind,” the person wrote.

    Krajčík had found his way to the Terrorgram community after hanging out on 8chan, a massive and anonymous forum that had long been an online haven for extremists; he would later say that he was “redpilled” — or radicalized — on the site.

    On 8chan, people posted racist memes and made plenty of vile comments. But the Terrorgram scene was different. In the Terrorgram chats people discussed, in detail, the best strategies for carrying out spectacular acts of violence aimed at toppling Western democracies and replacing them with all-white ethno-states.

    The chats Krajčík joined that summer of 2019 were administered by Pavol Beňadik, then a 20-year-old Slovakian college student who had helped create the Terrorgram community and was one of its leading personalities.

    A hybrid of a messaging service like WhatsApp and a social media platform like X or Facebook, Telegram offered features that appealed to extremists like Beňadik. They could engage in private encrypted discussions, start big chat groups or create public channels to broadcast their messages. Importantly, Telegram also allowed them to post huge PDF documents and lengthy video files.

    In his Terrorgram chats, Beňadik, who used the handle Slovakbro, relentlessly pressed for violent actions — although he never took any himself. Over two days in August, he posted instructions for making Molotov cocktails and pipe bombs, encouraged people to build radioactive dirty bombs and set them off in major cities, and called for the execution of police officers and other law enforcement agents. “TOTAL PIG DEATH,” he wrote.

    At the time, the chats were drawing hundreds of participants from around the world, including a large number of Americans.

    Beňadik, who was from a small village in western Slovakia, took a special interest in Krajčík, chatting with him in the Slovak language, discussing life in their country, and making him feel appreciated and respected.

    For Krajčík, this was a change. In his daily life outside of Terrorgram, he “felt completely unnoticed, unheard,” said Madro, who spoke with several of Krajčík’s classmates. “He often talked about his own feelings and thoughts publicly and felt like no one took him seriously.”

    Krajčík started spending massive amounts of time in the chat. On a single day, he posted 117 times over the span of 10 hours. The teen’s ideas began to closely echo those of Beňadik.

    In late September, two regulars had a friendly mixed martial arts bout and streamed it on YouTube. Krajčík shared the link with the rest of the chat group, who cheered and heckled as their online friends brawled. Beňadik encouraged Krajčík to participate in a similar bout in the future.

    “Porozmýšlam,” replied Krajčík: “I’ll think about it.”

    For Beňadik, the combatants were providing a good example. He wanted Terrorgrammers to transform themselves into Aryan warriors, hard men capable of doing serious physical harm to others.

    In reality, Krajčík was anything but a tough guy. A “severely bullied student,” Krajčík had transferred to a high school for academically gifted students, a school official told the Slovak newspaper Pravda. Two therapists “worked intensively with him for two years until the pandemic broke out and schools closed,” the official said.

    Beňadik created at least five neo-Nazi channels and two chat groups on Telegram, one of which eventually attracted nearly 5,000 subscribers. He crafted an online persona as a sage leader, offering tips and guidance for carrying out effective attacks. He often posted practical materials, such as files for 3D-printing rifle parts, including auto sears, which transform a semiautomatic gun into a fully automatic weapon. “Read useful literature, get useful skills,” he said in an interview with a podcast. “You are the revolutionary, so act like it.”

    It was only a month after joining Beňadik’s Terrorgram chats that Krajčík first mentioned Tepláreň, the LGBTQ+ bar in Bratislava he eventually attacked. On Sept. 18, 2019, he shared a link to a website called Queer Slovakia that featured an article on the bar.

    Beňadik responded immediately, writing that he was having a “copeland moment” — a reference to David Copeland, a British neo-Nazi who planted a nail bomb at an LGBTQ+ pub in London in 1999. The explosion killed three people and wounded nearly 80 others.

    “I DON’T ACTUALLY WANT TO NAIL BOMB THAT JOINT,” Beňadik continued. He wanted to do something far worse. “Hell,” Beňadik wrote, would be less brutal than what he had in mind.

    Another Terrorgrammer offered a suggestion: What about a bomb loaded with “Nails + ricin + chemicals?”

    Krajčík sounded a note of caution. “Just saying it will instantly make a squad of federal agents appear behind you and arrest you,” he wrote. Beňadik responded by complaining that Slovakia wasn’t producing enough “saints,” implicitly encouraging his mentee to achieve sainthood by committing a lethal act of terror.

    Two days later, Krajčík posted photos of people holding gay pride flags in downtown Bratislava. They were “degenerates,” he wrote, repeatedly using anti-gay slurs.

    One chat member told Krajčík he should’ve rounded up a group of Nazi skinheads and assaulted the demonstrators.

    Then Krajčík posted a photo of Tepláreň.

    Beňadik responded that “airborne paving stones make great gifts for such businesses.”

    In the chat, Beňadik repeatedly posted a PDF copy of the self-published memoirs of Eric Rudolph, the American terrorist who bombed the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta and several other sites before going on the run. The autobiography contains a detailed description of Rudolph’s bombing of a lesbian bar, which wounded five people.

    Urging Krajčík to read the book, Beňadik described it as “AMAZING” and a “great read.” Rudolph, he wrote, had created the “archetype” for the “lone wolf” terrorist.

    Eventually, Krajčík joined at least 49 extremist Telegram chats, many of them nodes in the Terrorgram network, according to analysis by Pierre Vaux, a researcher who investigates threats to democracy and human rights abuses.

    While Terrorgram started as a loose collection of accounts, by 2021 Beňadik and some of his fellow influencers had created a more formal organization, which they called the Terrorgram Collective, according to interviews with experts and court records from Slovakia, the U.S. and Canada.

    The organization began producing more sophisticated content — books, videos and a roster of potential assassination targets — and distributing the material to thousands of followers.

    Krajčík was a fan of the collective’s books, which are loaded with highly pixelated black-and-white graphics and offer a raft of specific advice for anyone planning a terror attack.

    By the summer of 2022, Krajčík had become a regular poster in a Terrorgram chat run by another alleged leader of the collective, Dallas Humber of Elk Grove, California, a quiet suburb of Sacramento.

    Humber went by a series of usernames but was eventually publicly exposed by a group of activists, and later arrested and charged with terrorism-related offenses. ProPublica and FRONTLINE reviewed chat logs — provided by the anti-facist Australian research organization The White Rose Society — and other online materials, as well as court records, to independently confirm her identity.

    Beňadik was arrested in Slovakia and charged with more than 200 terrorism offenses. He pleaded guilty and would be sentenced to six years in prison.

    In his absence, Humber quickly slipped in as mentor and coach to Krajčík.

    She was explicit about her intentions, constantly encouraging followers in her chats and channels to go out and kill their perceived enemies — including Jewish and Muslim people, members of the queer community and anybody who wasn’t white. Her job, she wrote in one post, was to embrace disaffected young white men and guide them “through the end of the radicalization process.”

    On Aug. 2, 2022, Humber and Krajčík discussed a grisly incident that had occurred several days earlier: A white man had beaten to death a Nigerian immigrant on a city street in northern Italy.

    The killing, which was documented on video, was “fucking glorious,” wrote Humber, using a racial slur to describe the victim. “Please send any more pics, articles, info to the chat as more details come out,” she posted.

    Krajčík wrote that he didn’t know much about the circumstances surrounding the crime but was still convinced the murderer had chosen “the right path.”

    The killer, wrote Humber, would make an “ideal” boyfriend. “Every girl wants a man who would kill a [racial expletive] for her 🥰 how romantic.”

    Three days later, Humber’s chat was alive with tributes to and praise for another killer. Wade Page, a Nazi skinhead and former U.S. Army soldier, had murdered six Sikh worshippers at a temple outside of Milwaukee a decade earlier. (A seventh would later die of their injuries.)

    When police confronted Page, he began shooting at them, hitting one officer 15 times before killing himself.

    Humber was a big fan of the killer. Page, she wrote, planned the attack thoroughly and chose his targets carefully. “He even made a point to desocialize and cut ties with those close to him,” Humber noted. “No chance of them disrupting his plans.”

    “Page did his duty,” Krajčík wrote.

    During the same time period, Krajčík started doing reconnaissance on potential targets in his city, staking out the apartment of then-Prime Minister Eduard Heger, a Jewish community center and Tepláreň, the bar.

    He posted photos of the locations on his private Twitter account. And in a series of cryptic tweets, Krajčík hinted at the violence to come:

    “I don’t expect to make it. In all likelyhood I will die in the course of the operation.”

    “Before an operation, you will have to mentally deal with several important questions. You will have to deal with them alone, to not jeopardize your mission by leaking it.”

    “I want to damage the System to the best of my abilities.”

    Then, on Oct. 11, 2022, he wrote:

    “I have made my decision.”

    The next evening, after spending a half-hour outside the prime minister’s apartment, Krajčík made his way to Tepláreň. The bar sat on a steep, winding street lined with cafes, clothing boutiques and other small businesses. For about 40 minutes he lurked in a shadowy doorway up the hill. Then, at about 7 p.m., he approached a small group of people sitting in front of the bar and began shooting.

    He killed Matúš Horváth and Juraj Vankulič and wounded Radka Trokšiarová, shooting her twice in the leg.

    Krajčík, then 19, fled the scene. He had just committed a terrorist attack that would shock the nation.

    In court records, U.S. prosecutors have linked both Humber and another alleged Terrorgram leader, Matthew Allison of Boise, Idaho, to Krajčík’s crime. The pair were charged last fall with a raft of felonies related to their Terrorgram posts and propaganda, including conspiring to provide material support to terrorists and soliciting the murder of federal officials.

    Krajčík “was active on Terrorgram and had frequent conversations with ALLISON, HUMBER, and other members of the Terrorgram Collective,” prosecutors allege in the indictment. In another brief, they say Krajčík shared his manifesto with Allison before the attack. Then, immediately after the murders, he allegedly sent Allison direct messages saying, “not sure how much time I have but it’s happening,” and “just delete all messages about this convo.”

    The Terrorgram posts cited in court documents corroborate our team’s reporting.

    Allison spoke with one of our reporters from jail against his lawyer’s advice. He said he did not incite anyone to violence and that prosecutors had misconstrued the communications with Krajčík. He has pleaded not guilty to all charges, and in a motion, his legal team indicated it would argue that all of his posts are protected by the First Amendment. Humber also pleaded not guilty. She declined to be interviewed and to comment through her lawyer.

    While Krajčík was at large, Slovakian authorities tapped Madro, the psychologist, to try to communicate with the young man. “After 12 text messages, he finally picked up the phone,” Madro recalled.

    The brief conversation ended with Krajčík killing himself. “The shot rang out and there was silence,” Madro said.

    Within hours, Humber was making celebratory posts. Krajčík, she exclaimed, had achieved sainthood. “Saint Krajčík’s place in the Pantheon is undisputed, as is our enthusiastic support for his work,” she wrote on a Terrorgram channel where she posted a picture of the victims on the ground, blood streaking the pavement.

    She and Allison also circulated his manifesto.

    In it, Krajčík praised the Terrorgram Collective for its “incredible writing and art,” “political texts” and “practical guides.” And he thanked Beňadik: “Your work was some of the first that I encountered after making the switch to Telegram, and remains some of the greatest on the platform.”

    While they were spreading Krajčík’s propaganda, the owner of Tepláreň, Roman Samotný, was mourning.

    The bar “was kind of like a safe island for queer people here in Slovakia,” he recalled in an interview. “It was just the place where everybody felt welcomed and just accepted and relaxed.”

    Before the attack, Samotný’s major concern was that some homophobe would smash the bar’s windows. After the murders, he said, “the biggest change is the realization that we are not anymore safe here. … I was never thinking that we can be killed because of our identity.”

    Samotný has closed the bar.

    The survivor, Trokšiarová, was left with lingering physical pain and emotional distress. “I was deeply confused,” she said. “Why would anyone do it?”

    Erik Prince threatens ProPublica reporters after they reveal special trusts he and others exploited to avoid estate taxes

    by Jeff Ernsthausen, James Bandler, Justin Elliott and Patricia Callahan

    ProPublica is a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative newsroom. Sign up for The Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox.

    Series: The Secret IRS Files

    Inside the Tax Records of the .001%

    It's well known, at least among tax lawyers and accountants for the ultrawealthy: The estate tax can be easily avoided by exploiting a loophole unwittingly created by Congress three decades ago. By using special trusts, a rarefied group of Americans has taken advantage of this loophole, reducing government revenues and fueling inequality.

    There is no way for the public to know who uses these special trusts aside from when they've been disclosed in lawsuits or securities filings. There's also been no way to quantify just how much in estate tax has been lost to them, though, in 2013, the lawyer who pioneered the use of the most common one — known as the grantor retained annuity trust, or GRAT — estimated they may have cost the U.S. Treasury about $100 billion over the prior 13 years.

    As Congress considers cracking down on GRATs and other trusts to help fund President Joe Biden's domestic agenda, a new analysis by ProPublica based on a trove of tax information about thousands of the wealthiest Americans sheds light on just how widespread the use of special trusts to dodge the estate tax has become.

    More than half of the nation's 100 richest individuals have used GRATs and other trusts to avoid estate tax, the analysis shows. Among them: former Democratic presidential candidate Michael Bloomberg; Leonard Lauder, the son of cosmetics magnate Estée Lauder; Stephen Schwarzman, a founder of the private equity firm Blackstone; Charles Koch and his late brother, David, the industrialists who have underwritten libertarian causes and funded lobbying efforts to roll back the estate tax; and Laurene Powell Jobs, the widow of Apple founder Steve Jobs. (Powell Jobs' Emerson Collective is among ProPublica's largest donors.)

    More than a century ago amid soaring inequality and the rise of stratospherically wealthy families such as the Mellons and Rockefellers, Congress created the estate tax as a way to raise money and clip the fortunes of the rich at death. Lawmakers later added a gift tax as a means of stopping wealthy people from passing their fortunes on to their children and grandchildren before death. Nowadays, 99.9% of Americans never have to worry about these taxes. They only hit individuals passing more than $11.7 million, or couples giving more than $23.4 million, to their heirs. The federal government imposes a roughly 40% levy on amounts above those figures before that wealth is passed on to heirs.

    For her part, Powell Jobs has decried as “dangerous for a society" the early 20th century fortunes of the Mellons, Rockefellers and others. “I'm not interested in legacy wealth buildings, and my children know that," she told The New York Times last year. “Steve wasn't interested in that. If I live long enough, it ends with me."

    Nonetheless, after the death of her husband in 2011, Powell Jobs used a series of GRATs to pass on around a half a billion dollars, estate-tax-free, to her children, friends and other family, according to the tax records and interviews with her longtime attorney. By using the GRATs, she avoided at least $200 million in estate and gift taxes.

    Her attorney, Larry Sonsini, said Powell Jobs did this so that her children would have cash to pay estate taxes when she dies and they inherit “nostalgic and hard assets," such as real estate, art and a yacht. (At 260 feet, Venus is among the larger pleasure ships in the world.) Without the $500 million or so passed through the trusts, he said, Powell Jobs' heirs would have to sell stock that she intends to give to charity to pay her estate tax bill.

    Sonsini said Powell Jobs, whose fortune is pegged at $21 billion by Forbes, has already given billions away to charity and paid $2.5 billion in state and federal taxes between 2012 and 2020. “When you look at an estate that may be worth multiple billions, and all the rest is going to charity, and you put it in perspective, what is the problem we're worried about here?" Sonsini asked. “This is not about creating dynasty wealth for these kids."

    In a written statement, Powell Jobs said she supports “reforms that make the tax code more fair. Through my work at Emerson Collective and philanthropic commitments, I have dedicated my life and assets to the pursuit of a more just and equitable society."

    Others whose special trusts ProPublica identified, including Bloomberg and the Kochs, declined to comment on why they'd set up the trusts or their estate-tax implications. Representatives for Lauder didn't respond to requests to accept questions on his behalf. Schwarzman's spokesperson wrote that he is “one of the largest individual taxpayers in the country and fully complies with all tax rules."

    A typical GRAT entails putting assets, like stocks, in a trust that ultimately benefits a person's heirs. The trust pays back an amount equal to what the trust's creator put in plus a modest amount of interest. But any gains on the investments above that amount flow to the heirs free of gift or estate taxes. So if a person puts $100 million worth of stock in a GRAT and the stock rises in value to $130 million, their heirs would receive about $30 million tax-free.

    In 1990, Congress accidentally created GRATs when it closed another estate tax loophole that was popular at the time. The IRS challenged the maneuver but lost in court.

    “I don't blame the taxpayers who are doing it," said Daniel Hemel, a professor at the University of Chicago Law School. “Congress has virtually invited them to do it. I blame Congress for creating the monster and then failing to stop the monster once it became clear how much of the tax base the GRAT monster would eat up."

    Users of the trusts extend well beyond the top of the Forbes rankings, ProPublica's analysis of the confidential IRS files show. Erik Prince, founder of the military contractor Blackwater and himself heir to an auto parts fortune, used the shelter. Fashion designer Calvin Klein has used them, as have “Saturday Night Live" creator Lorne Michaels and media mogul Oprah Winfrey.

    “We have paid all taxes due," a spokesperson for Winfrey said. A representative of Klein did not accept questions from ProPublica or respond to messages. A spokesman for Michaels declined to comment.

    Prince also did not answer questions. “Hey if you publish private information about me I'll be sure to return the favor," he wrote. “Go ahead and fuck off."

    The GRAT has become so ubiquitous in recent decades that high-end tax lawyers consider it a plain vanilla strategy. “This is an off-the-shelf solution," said Michael Kosnitzky, co-leader of the private wealth practice at law firm Pillsbury Winthrop Shaw Pittman. “Almost every wealthy person should have one."

    ProPublica's tally almost certainly undercounts the number of Forbes 100 members who use shelters to avoid estate taxes. ProPublica counted only those people whose tax records or public filings explicitly mention GRATs or other trusts commonly used to dodge gift and estate taxes. But a wealthy person can call their trusts whatever they want, leaving plenty of trusts outside of ProPublica's count.

    This month, the House and Senate are hammering out proposals to raise revenue to help pay for the Biden administration's plans to expand the social safety net. The legislative blueprint released by House Ways and Means Committee Chairman Richard Neal, D-Mass., would defang GRATs and other trusts, which would still be legal but no longer be as useful for estate tax avoidance. If the provision makes it into law, “it would put a major dent in GRATs," said Bob Lord, an Arizona attorney who specializes in trusts and estates.

    Senate Budget Committee Chairman Bernie Sanders, I-Vt., has proposed going further in undercutting estate tax avoidance tools. But the prospect of any reform is uncertain, as Democrats on Capitol Hill struggle to find the votes to pass the package of spending and tax changes.

    GRATs are commonly described by tax lawyers as a “heads I win, tails we tie" proposition. If the investment placed in the GRAT soars in value, that increase passes to an heir without being subject to future estate tax. If the investment doesn't go up, the wealthy person can simply try again and again until they succeed, leading many users to have multiple GRATs going at a time.

    For example, Herb Simon, founder of the country's biggest shopping mall empire and owner of the Indiana Pacers, was one of the most prolific GRAT creators in records reviewed by ProPublica. Since 2000, he has hatched dozens of the trusts, often more than one a year. In an interview with The Indianapolis Star in 2017, the octogenarian Simon said, “It's always a big tax problem" for the next generation when someone dies, “but we've worked that tax problem. We won't have a problem with that."

    A spokesperson for Simon didn't respond to questions for this article.

    Mentions of these trusts have periodically surfaced in the press after being disclosed in securities filings, as was the case with trusts held by Facebook co-founders Mark Zuckerberg and Dustin Moskovitz and Chief Operating Officer Sheryl Sandberg. In 2013, Bloomberg News published a groundbreaking series on GRATs, mining securities filings and other records to reveal how the mega-rich, including casino magnate Sheldon Adelson and such families as Walmart's Waltons, had perfected the use of the device.

    ProPublica's data shows that Michael Bloomberg, the majority owner of the company that bears his name and No. 13 on Forbes' list of the wealthiest Americans, is himself a heavy user of GRATs. Over the course of a dozen years, he repeatedly cycled pieces of his private company in and out of the trusts — often opening multiple GRATs in one year. During that time, hundreds of millions of dollars in income flowed through Bloomberg's GRATs, giving him opportunities to shield parts of his fortune for his heirs.

    ProPublica described the transactions (but not the name of the person engaging in them) to Lord, the trusts and estates attorney. The GRAT is “the perfect loophole to avoid estate and gift tax in this situation," said Lord, who is also tax counsel for Americans for Tax Fairness and an advocate for estate tax reform.

    When Bloomberg ran for president in 2020, he vowed to shore up the estate tax. “Owners of the biggest estates are expert at gaming the system to reduce what they owe," a campaign fact sheet for his tax plan said. Bloomberg vowed to “lower the estate-tax threshold, so that more estates are taxed," and to “shut down multiple estate-tax avoidance schemes." His fact sheet offered few details as to how he would do that, and it didn't mention GRATs.

    The legislation Congress is now considering to curtail GRATs would leave open other options for estate tax avoidance, including a cousin to the GRAT known as a charitable lead annuity trust, or CLAT, which contributes to charity while passing gains from stocks and other assets on to heirs. And the legislation would grandfather in existing trusts, meaning that those who have already established trusts would be able to continue to use them to avoid paying estate taxes.

    That has set off a predictable push by tax lawyers to get their clients to create tax-sheltering trusts before any new legislation takes effect.

    Porter Wright, a law firm that offers estate planning services, told existing and potential clients it was “critical" to evaluate opportunities because “the window may close very soon. There are important and time sensitive issues which could substantially impact the amount of wealth you are able to transfer free of estate and gift tax to future generations."

    A House bill would blow up a tool of the superwealthy to avoid taxes

    This was first published by ProPublica, a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative newsroom. Sign up for The Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox.

    Legislation currently making its way through Congress would take a sledgehammer to the massive individual retirement accounts built up tax-free by a select group of the ultrawealthy.

    The proposal, which is part of the infrastructure and tax package advancing in the House, targets the jaw-dropping IRAs accumulated by multimillionaires and billionaires such as tech investor Peter Thiel, which were first reported by ProPublica earlier this year. Those accounts — Thiel's alone was worth $5 billion in 2019 — have allowed some super-wealthy Americans to turn their Roth IRAs, tools meant to incentivize middle-class retirement saving, into supersized tax shelters.

    The proposed reform, put forward by House Ways and Means Chairman Richard Neal, D-Mass., would effectively cap the total amount someone could hold in a Roth at $20 million and compel the holders of the giant accounts to withdraw anything over that limit. Separately, individuals would have to add up the balances of their retirement accounts — including Roths, traditional IRAs, 401(k)s and 403(b)s — and every year withdraw half of any amount over $10 million. The provisions would only apply to individuals with taxable income of over $400,000 or couples making over $450,000.

    The reform wouldn't affect the overwhelming majority of Americans, whose retirement savings (if they have any) are far more modest — the average Roth was worth just $39,108 at the end of 2018.

    “Incentives in our tax code that help Americans save for retirement were never intended to enable a tax shelter for the ultra-wealthy," Neal said earlier this year. “We must shut down these practices."

    Should the bill pass, it could have profound implications for PayPal founder Thiel, whose gargantuan Roth stunned lawmakers, spurring Neal to vow a crackdown. Thiel wouldn't owe any tax up front and no early withdrawal penalties would apply, but he'd be required to move billions out of the tax-advantaged account. And any gains on investments made with that money would no longer be sheltered from taxes, potentially creating hundreds of millions of dollars in future tax liabilities.

    The great appeal of the Roth IRA is that once money is inside it, any income generated — such as capital gains from selling a stock, investment interest or dividends — is tax-free, as long as the holder waits until he or she is 59 and a half to withdraw it. (Thiel hits that mark in 2027.) In a traditional IRA, by contrast, money that's withdrawn counts as income and is taxed.

    The IRA reforms are part of a slate of proposals designed to eliminate loopholes and boost tax rates on rich individuals and corporations.

    Several of the changes address revelations contained in The Secret IRS Files, a series of ProPublica stories published this year that are exploring the ways the very richest Americans avoid paying taxes. Usually such efforts remain secret, but ProPublica has obtained a trove of tax records covering thousands of the country's richest people. The records reveal not only the diverse array of tax-avoidance techniques used by the rich, but also that some of the very richest have consistently found ways to avoid taking income, so they pay little or no taxes, even as their wealth multiplied to historic levels.

    The current House plan falls short of President Joe Biden's more ambitious proposals to combat wealth inequality through the tax code. But experts say it would significantly increase the taxes paid by high-income Americans. Among other things, it would all but eliminate a major deduction created by President Donald Trump's 2017 tax law that, as ProPublica recently reported, showered massive tax breaks on some of the richest families in the country.

    Given the stakes for a small group of wealthy and powerful Americans, it's unclear whether the IRA proposal, along with the rest of the package, will become law. It must pass the House and make it through the Senate, where it will likely need the votes of all 50 Democratic senators to pass. Capitol Hill staffers say the bill remains fluid and provisions could still be cut, added or modified.

    For now, however, the proposal has alarmed those who stand to lose the most. Three tax lawyers told ProPublica that clients with giant IRAs have reached out to them, worried about the potential reforms. Already a lawyer and an accountant are offering a paid webinar that pitches strategies to help owners of large IRAs get around the proposed rules.

    A spokesman for Thiel didn't respond to a request for comment.

    The tax proposals have drawn opposition from Republicans on Capitol Hill. “This is very bad news for the U.S. economy," said Ways and Means Committee ranking member Rep. Kevin Brady, R-Texas, in an interview this week.

    A budget analyst at the anti-tax Heritage Foundation specifically criticized the IRA reform proposals as “stifling retirement savings and decreasing the economy-wide investment in future productivity."

    Neal announced his plans to curb the size of mega IRAs in July following ProPublica's story revealing how Thiel and other billionaires had amassed giant retirement accounts using techniques largely unavailable to most taxpayers. Other wealthy investors with giant retirement accounts included financier Michael Milken, Warren Buffett and executives from investment giant Bain Capital.

    Neal joined his Senate counterpart, Ron Wyden, D-Ore., who had been pushing for reform of mega IRAs for years without much support from his peers.

    With a multibillion-dollar tax-free account on the line, a wealthy investor might try to keep his income below the $400,000 threshold set by the proposal. In Thiel's case, it's not clear if that would be possible, given that he's long reported tens of millions of dollars on his tax returns from capital gains, interest and dividends on investments he holds outside of his Roth IRA. And even if he has to withdraw billions from his Roth, he will never have to pay taxes on years of growth inside the account.

    ProPublica has previously reported that several billionaires have had very little taxable income in certain years, including Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk. Musk did not respond to questions for that story and Bezos' representatives would not designate someone to accept questions related to that story.

    The proposal would also add restrictions in areas that congressional investigators have said are ripe for abuse by the wealthy: The owners of IRAs would be barred from using the accounts to either purchase certain nonpublic investments or buy stakes in companies in which they are an officer.

    Thiel launched his Roth IRA by purchasing so-called founder's shares of PayPal in 1999 when he was chairman and CEO of the company, according to tax records and a financial statement Thiel included in his application for residency in New Zealand. Securities and Exchange Commission records show he bought 1.7 million shares for $1,700, or a tenth of a penny per share. (The maximum contribution to a Roth that year was $2,000.) PayPal later told the SEC the shares were sold “below market value."

    The practice has become popular among the founders of Silicon Valley companies, who tuck shares of their startups into IRAs, often after buying them at bargain prices. This can sidestep IRA contribution limits and generate massive tax-free growth if the value of their companies explodes.

    The proposal would also shut down the so-called backdoor Roth. ProPublica found that billionaires like Buffett had taken advantage of a maneuver, known as a conversion, that allows the wealthy to sidestep existing income caps to create a Roth IRA. In a conversion, the owner of a traditional IRA can transform it into a Roth by paying one-time tax on the money. Once the account is converted into a Roth, no additional income taxes are ever due. The new provision would bar conversions for individuals with income over $400,000, though the ban would not go into effect until 2031 for budgetary reasons. (Buffett previously didn't respond to questions about his IRA.)

    The proposal also has implications for the holders of giant traditional IRAs, who could suddenly owe a hefty tax bill. Money withdrawn from a traditional IRA counts as taxable income. Milken, the 1980s junk bond king who went to prison for fraud and was later pardoned by Trump, had traditional IRAs valued at $509 million at the end of 2018, according to tax records. If the law passed, Milken could face a tax bill of roughly $100 million, depending on the current size of his account. A spokesperson for Milken declined to comment.

    Separately, another part of the bill would tackle the generous business income deductions granted by Trump's 2017 tax law.

    As ProPublica previously reported, the drafting of the deduction was marked by last-minute changes and a rush of lobbying dollars from corporations and the superrich. The result of its passage, confidential tax records show, was a windfall for billionaires such as media mogul Michael Bloomberg, packaging tycoons Dick and Liz Uihlein, and the Bechtel family, owners of a global engineering and construction firm.

    Bloomberg received a deduction of roughly $183 million in 2018 alone as a result of the provision, while the Uihleins netted around $118 million.

    Under the House proposal, the deduction would be capped at $400,000 for an individual and $500,000 for a couple, virtually wiping it out for the very rich. If such a cap had been in place in 2018, for example, the Uihleins would have gotten a deduction worth just $500,000 instead of $118 million. A competing Senate proposal unveiled by Wyden in July would go even further. A spokesperson for the Uihleins declined to comment on the proposed reforms.

    On a broader level, the House plan would spell a significant tax hike on Americans earning more than $400,000, raising their individual income tax rates as well as bumping up the corporate tax rate, the first such hikes in a decade.

    But despite the proposal's ambition, critics say it misses a rare opportunity to capture the massive untaxed wealth of some of the richest individuals in history, including Bezos and Musk, who have often found ways to keep their income low.

    As ProPublica reported, they and other billionaires have managed to pay little to no taxes in the past. Some have done so by pursuing the so-called buy, borrow, die strategy. By holding on to his Tesla stock but borrowing money to finance his lifestyle, Musk, for example, can avoid income that is taxable under current law. If he sticks to this strategy till death, the income tax liability on his fortune will evaporate for his heirs.

    Some Democrats and policymakers had aspired to even bolder tax code changes that would have targeted the stratospheric increases in the ultrawealthy's riches. One idea, championed by Sens. Elizabeth Warren, D-Mass., and Bernie Sanders, I-Vt., would be to levy a so-called wealth tax on billionaires' overall holdings. Another, pushed by Wyden, would tax the annual gains billionaires logged, even if they hadn't sold the assets. Both ideas foundered, with concerted opposition from billionaires and skittishness from Democratic centrists. Some critics point out that wealth taxes have often failed in other countries. And many policymakers believe it would be too logistically difficult to measure assets properly and enforce such a sweeping rule on gains.

    Campaign to rein in mega IRA tax shelters gains steam in Congress

    ProPublica is a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative newsroom. Sign up for The Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox.

    Series: The Secret IRS Files

    Inside the Tax Records of the .001%

    Two members of Congress who have long been responsible for shaping federal laws on retirement savings are considering major reforms after ProPublica exposed how the ultrawealthy are turning retirement accounts into gargantuan tax shelters.

    Rep. Richard Neal, the Massachusetts Democrat who chairs the powerful House Ways and Means Committee, told ProPublica that he has directed the committee to draft a bill that “will stop IRAs from being exploited."

    The committee is considering “limiting the total amount of money that can be saved in tax-preferred retirement accounts," Neal said in a written statement.

    “Incentives in our tax code that help Americans save for retirement were never intended to enable a tax shelter for the ultra-wealthy," Neal said. “We must shut down these practices."

    In addition, Sen. Ben Cardin, a Maryland Democrat who has co-authored a series of changes to retirement savings laws in the past decade, is also in favor of reforms that his spokesperson said would “prevent the type of massive abuses exemplified by the ultra-wealthy."

    But provisions lurking deep in unrelated legislation currently wending its way through Congress could undermine those efforts.

    In its June 24 story, ProPublica detailed that one technique investors have used to sock hundreds of millions of dollars — even billions — away in their IRAs is to fill the accounts with bargain-basement shares in companies that are not publicly traded, so they have no clear valuation. Then, when the companies go public or are sold, their accounts explode in value — with all of the gains tax-free.

    Cardin's spokesperson told ProPublica that the senator now supports banning such transactions, which would be one of the biggest reforms in decades to the rules governing the accounts. The Internal Revenue Service recommended a similar change more than a decade ago. Congressional investigators wrote that an IRS team in 2009 had suggested “limiting the types of investments IRAs can make to publicly traded or otherwise marketable securities with a readily ascertainable fair market value."

    Cardin is “considering reforms, such as banning the use of IRAs to purchase nonpublic investments," calling it “a good starting point while protecting IRAs for every day Americans to save for their retirement," his spokesperson wrote in an email.

    The growing interest in changing the system gives momentum to the plans of Oregon Sen. Ron Wyden, chair of the Senate Finance Committee, who last month declared that he was eyeing a similar crackdown on giant IRAs.

    Wyden's move came after ProPublica detailed how the Roth IRA, a ho-hum retirement account designed to help the middle class save for retirement, had been hijacked by the ultrawealthy, who used it to create gigantic onshore tax shelters. Tax records obtained by ProPublica revealed that Peter Thiel, a co-founder of PayPal and an early investor in Facebook, had a Roth IRA worth $5 billion as of 2019. As long as Thiel waits until he is six months shy of his 60th birthday, he will be able to withdraw his fortune tax-free.

    Thiel made an end run around the strict limit on what can be put into a Roth IRA by purchasing so-called founders' shares of PayPal in 1999 when he was chairman and CEO of that company, according to tax records and a financial statement Thiel included in his application for citizenship in New Zealand. Securities and Exchange Commission records show Thiel bought 1.7 million shares for $1,700 — a price of a tenth of a penny per share. PayPal later told the SEC that the shares were among those sold at “below fair value."

    When PayPal took off and Thiel's shares ballooned in value, he sold them and used the proceeds — still within his Roth — to invest in other startups, including Facebook, long before they went public, according to court records and Thiel's financial statement filed in New Zealand. He never had to make another contribution to his Roth again. The account's stratospheric growth all stemmed from a private stock deal available only to a handful of people.

    This is the type of nonpublic IRA investment that Cardin is considering banning. A spokesperson for Thiel did not respond to requests for comment.

    But this new appetite for reining in the accounts may be too late to slow contrary bipartisan legislation already rolling through Congress. Buried deep inside two complex and sweeping bills — each more than 140 pages long — are provisions that could make it harder for the IRS to crack down on the ultrawealthy who dodge tax rules.

    Those bills, paradoxically, are co-sponsored by Cardin and Neal, two of the lawmakers who are now calling for reining in giant retirement accounts.

    The House and Senate bills were introduced before ProPublica launched its ongoing series last month exposing how the country's richest citizens sidestep the nation's income tax system. ProPublica has obtained IRS tax return data on thousands of the wealthiest people in the U.S., covering more than 15 years, allowing it to conduct an unprecedented examination of how the ultrawealthy employ tricks to avoid taxes in ways that most Americans cannot.

    The bills are being pitched as helping ordinary Americans save for retirement, including automatic enrollment of workers in employer-sponsored retirement plans. But they also include perks for retirement and financial industries, such as relaxing certain rules in ways that are seen as a boon for insurers.

    Deciphering the handouts is nearly impossible without a background in the intricacies of retirement plan tax laws and the help of experts. The bills hide critical changes in language most laypeople would never understand. For instance, a key piece of the Senate bill reads, “Paragraph (2) of subsection (e) of section 408 is repealed." But the scope of that change only makes sense when layered with this: “Section 4975(c)(3) is amended by striking 'the account ceases to be an individual retirement account by reason of the application of section 408(e)(2)(A) or if'."

    ProPublica had to reverse-engineer the meaning of that series of numbers and letters to determine that it would take away one of the most potent weapons in the IRS' arsenal: the ability to strip an entire IRA of its tax-favored status.

    Complicated IRS and Department of Labor rules prohibit IRA investments that involve conflicts of interest or self-dealing. That can be a particular concern with nontraditional IRA investments, such as purchases of real estate or of shares of companies that are not publicly traded. Under the current law, if the IRS determines that a retirement account has engaged in a prohibited transaction, the agency can blow up the entire account — an event that Warren Baker, a tax attorney whose practice focuses on IRAs, likens to “Armageddon." The whole account then ceases to be an IRA, and the owner has to pay income taxes on it.

    The two bills propose defusing that bomb. In the House bill, the tax benefits would only be stripped from the part of the account involved in the forbidden transaction. The Senate bill would loosen the rules even more, applying a 15% excise tax on the part of the account involved in the prohibited transaction without blowing up the account. A spokesperson for Cardin said, “The penalty jumps to 100% if not corrected in a timely manner."

    Still, someone who violates the rules suddenly would have a “massive long-term upside benefit" of tax-free growth, Baker said, while “your downside risk is a penalty that is smaller than the capital gains rates," the federal tax on the income that's generated when stocks or other assets are sold.

    Bob Lord, a tax attorney and tax counsel to Americans for Tax Fairness, said he has represented clients who settled Roth IRA cases because the threat of losing the tax benefits of their entire accounts was “leverage the IRS had." He was stunned when he read the bills and saw that power stripped from the IRS.

    “These changes will lead to more aggressive transactions that lodge greater wealth in Roth IRAs, with less risk if the IRS audits," Lord said.

    The proposed Senate bill, experts say, makes another concession to IRA owners who might be tempted to dodge the rules. Under current law, an IRA account holder who violates rules is never totally in the clear. That's because the current statute of limitations for violations is a bit of a gray area, experts say. The IRS, “could virtually go back indefinitely," said Jeffrey Levine, a CPA and chief planning officer at Buckingham Wealth Partners.

    The Senate bill proposes stopping the clock at three years. Yet, it can take more than three years for some nontraditional investments to balloon. If the IRS were to discover something amiss, under the bill's proposed statute of limitations it would be too late to act.

    “For the little guy this makes all the sense in the world," Levine said. But for the ultrawealthy with huge accounts and squadrons of lawyers, he said, the changes could incentivize bad behavior. “Someone with all the resources in the world could say, 'I'll do this now that my risk-reward calculation is different and I'm looking at getting through three years and then I'm kind of home free.' That, you know, is a real boon for those who want to take advantage of the system."

    The House bill is co-sponsored by Neal and Rep. Kevin Brady, a Texas Republican, and the Senate bill is co-sponsored by Cardin and Sen. Rob Portman, an Ohio Republican.

    A spokesperson for Portman defended the legislation, which she said was “borne out of contact from our constituents — including innocent middle class savers who had their retirements wrecked by innocent and minor errors." ProPublica asked aides to Portman and Cardin for examples, but neither provided any. A Cardin spokesperson wrote in an email that “there usually is not litigation when this happens, and non-public examples are confidential taxpayer information."

    In a joint statement, the offices of Portman and Cardin defended the Senate bill, saying it would help small businesses offer 401(k) retirement plans, expand access to savings for low-income Americans and “allow people who have saved too little to set more aside for retirement." The new legislation, they added, included measures to prevent Americans from inadvertently losing their IRAs while “implementing safeguards to prevent abuse."

    Brady's communications director asked for questions in writing, then did not respond.

    A staffer with Neal's Ways and Means Committee said the House bill had broad support and touted many provisions, including the automatic enrollment of employees in retirement plans, a national lost-and-found to locate retirement plans from prior jobs and a requirement that employers let certain long-term, part-time workers enroll in 401(k) plans.

    The House bill, she noted, doesn't repeal the prohibited transaction rules; it limits the impact to the inappropriate purchase. She described Neal as “very committed to maintaining these important rules and believes that full sanctions should apply when violated."

    The Justice Department sues Walmart — accuses it of illegally dispensing opioids

    ProPublica is a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative newsroom. Sign up for The Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox.

    More than two years after the federal government was preparing to indict Walmart on charges of illegally dispensing opioids, the U.S. Department of Justice is finally taking action. But it's seeking a financial penalty, not the criminal sanction prosecutors had pushed for.

    On Tuesday, the Department of Justice brought a civil suit against Walmart in U.S. District Court in Delaware, accusing the retailing behemoth of illegally dispensing and distributing opioids, helping to fuel a health crisis that has led to the deaths of around half a million Americans since 1999.

    The government accuses the company, which operates one of the biggest pharmacy chains in the country, of knowingly filling thousands of invalid opioid prescriptions, failing to alert the government to dangerous or excessive prescriptions, and pushing pharmacists to work faster and look the other way in order to boost corporate profits.

    By law, pharmacists are prohibited from filling prescriptions they know are not for legitimate medical needs. “Walmart was well aware of these rules, but made little effort to ensure that it complied with them," the government said in its suit.

    Walmart applied “enormous pressure" on pharmacists to fill prescriptions as fast as they could, while preventing them from halting prescriptions they knew came from bad doctors, the government said. When Walmart pharmacists warned headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas, about doctors who operated “known pill mills," did “not practice real medicine" and had “horrendous prescribing practices," headquarters ignored their pleas, the lawsuit asserts.

    Walmart denounced the suit. “The Justice Department's investigation is tainted by historical ethics violations, and this lawsuit invents a legal theory that unlawfully forces pharmacists to come between patients and their doctors, and is riddled with factual inaccuracies and cherry-picked documents taken out of context," the company said in a statement. In October, aware that a government suit was likely, Walmart took the highly unusual step of preemptively suing the Justice Department. The company argued that it did nothing wrong and, there, too, accused the government of acting unethically. According to Walmart, the federal prosecutors used the threat of a criminal case to try to negotiate higher civil penalties. (Prosecutors deny that claim.)

    The case against Walmart originated in the summer of 2016, with an investigation of two Texas doctors, Howard Diamond and Randall Wade, who were prescribing opioids on a vast scale. Federal prosecutors in the Eastern District of Texas eventually brought cases against the pair, accusing them of contributing to multiple deaths. The doctors were subsequently convicted of illegal distribution of opioids, with Wade sentenced to 10 years in prison and Diamond to 20 years. That case uncovered evidence that led prosecutors to investigate Walmart itself.

    In 2018, Joe Brown, the Trump-appointed U.S. attorney in the Eastern District of Texas, sought to criminally indict the company over its opioid practices, as detailed in a ProPublica story in March. During this period, as Walmart tried to fend off a criminal case, its lawyers expressed willingness to discuss a civil settlement. The company “stands ready to engage in a principled and reasoned dialogue concerning any potential conduct of its employees that merits a civil penalty," Jones Day partner Karen Hewitt wrote in August 2018 to the head of the criminal division of the Justice Department.

    The Texas prosecutors were unswayed by Walmart's arguments. Joined by the head of the Drug Enforcement Administration, Brown's team traveled to Justice Department headquarters in Washington to make an impassioned plea to bring the criminal case.

    But Trump appointees at the highest levels of the department — including the deputy attorneys general at different times, Rod Rosenstein and Jeffrey Rosen — stymied the attempt, dictating that Walmart could not be indicted. (Rosen recently was named acting attorney general.) When prosecutors sought to criminally prosecute a Walmart manager, top officials in the Trump Justice Department prevented that, too.

    The Justice Department then dragged out civil settlement negotiations. The delays prompted Josh Russ, the head of the civil division in the Eastern District of Texas who had urged bringing a civil suit years ago, to resign in protest. “Corporations cannot poison Americans with impunity. Good sense dictates stern and swift action when Americans die," Russ wrote in his resignation letter in October 2019.

    This week's suit largely echoes the allegations that the Eastern District of Texas had made in seeking a criminal case. Legal officials can in some circumstances pursue the same allegations either criminally or civilly, with a higher burden of proof for prosecutors and stiffer potential penalties for defendants when it comes to criminal cases.

    In the new suit, prosecutors said Walmart pharmacists routinely filled prescriptions from known “pill mill" doctors. Sometimes those doctors explicitly told their patients to go to Walmart pharmacies, the complaint alleges. Walmart filled prescriptions from doctors even when its pharmacists knew that other pharmacies had stopped filling prescriptions from those doctors.

    The suit also details that Walmart's compliance unit based out of its headquarters collected “voluminous" information that its pharmacists were regularly being served invalid prescriptions, but “for years withheld that information" from its pharmacists.

    In fact, the compliance department often sent the opposite message. When a regional manager received a list of troubling prescriptions from headquarters, he asked, “Does your team pull out any insights from these we need to highlight?"

    In an email cited in the suit, which was first reported by ProPublica, a director of Health and Wellness Practice Compliance at Walmart, responded, “Driving sales and patient awareness is a far better use of our Market Directors and Market manager's time."

    Walmart headquarters regularly put pressure on pharmacists to work faster. Managers pushed pharmacists because “shorter wait times keep patients in store," that this was a “battle of seconds" and that “wait times are our Achilles heel!" according to the suit. Pharmacists said the pressure and Walmart's thin staffing “doesn't allow time for individual evaluation of prescriptions," the suit says.

    In May, two months after ProPublica published its story, Brown, the U.S. attorney who had pushed for criminal prosecution of Walmart, left his job abruptly. His resignation letter cited the need to “win the fight against opioid abuse in order to save our country" and added that “players both big and small must meet equal justice under the law." Brown did not return a call seeking comment.

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