The only woman serving on Mississippi’s death row can challenge her sentence and conviction in state court, a federal judge has ruled.
Lisa Jo Chamberlin was convicted of two counts of capital murder in 2006 and is at housed at the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility in Pearl.
But she is not the only incarcerated person on death row appealing her case.
Of the 36 people sentenced to death, all are in various stages of having their cases reviewed by the Mississippi Supreme Court or in federal court, said Krissy Nobile, director of the Office of Capital Post-Conviction, a state agency.
Post-conviction litigation begins after a person is convicted and sentenced and the Mississippi Supreme Court or U.S. Supreme Court denies a defendant’s direct appeal. Post-conviction cases challenge aspects of a criminal trial, conviction judgment or a sentence.
“Post-conviction isn’t just a one stop shot and you get one chance,” said Nobile, whose office has requested to represent Chamberlin and represents all other death row incarcerated people
Examples of post-conviction claims can include ineffective counsel, a change in law, new evidence that can excuse fault or guilt, the application of mitigation that may have convinced a jury to vote for a sentence less than death or constitutional violations.
Relief for a death row inmate can come in the form of a new trial and resentencing for a lesser sentence, like life in prison without the possibility of parole, Nobile said.
On June 1, U.S. District Judge Carlton Reeves of the Southern District of Mississippi issued a stay in Chamberlin’s case, allowing her to return to state court to litigate unexhausted claims in her case.
He cited a 2013 Mississippi Supreme Court ruling recognizing a state right to effective-post conviction legal representation in death penalty cases, even after an initial post-conviction petition was denied.
“Here, Chamberlin has a valid excuse for not pursuing this claim earlier: it did not exist until after her habeas case had been filed,” Reeves wrote. “The claim is not clearly meritless.”
In 2006, Chamberlin was found guilty of murder with her then-boyfriend Roger Gillett for killing two people they lived with in Hattiesburg.
The victims, Linda Heintzelman and her boyfriend Vernon Hulett, were put into a freezer and taken to Kansas, where Chamberlin and Gillett were arrested.
Chamberlin appealed her conviction and sentence, but in 2008 the Mississippi Supreme Court agreed with the Forrest County Circuit Court’s decision and denied her petition for post-conviction relief, according to court records.
In 2011, Chamberlin asked the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of Mississippi to hear her case and in 2015 Reeves ordered a new trial. Attorneys argued there was a constitutional issue in her case known as a Batson violation, which is the improper dismissal of potential members of a jury based on race, according to court records.
A panel of the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals agreed with Reeves’ ruling, but in 2018 the full court reversed its decision, court records state. The U.S. Supreme Court declined to review Chamberlin’s case in 2019, putting it back in the hands of the federal district court in Mississippi.
Earlier this year, Chamberlin’s attorney filed an intent to return the case to state court.
In state court, Chamberlin will be represented by the Office of Capital Post-Conviction Counsel.
Nobile and several of her colleagues sent a request to the Mississippi Supreme Court to represent Chamberlin. Once appointed, the team will begin to review Chamberlin’s case files, investigate and find evidence for claims that haven’t been raised in her case.
The office did not represent Chamberlin in her initial post-conviction case because it represented her co-defendant Gillett. Nobile said the office does not represent co-defendants to avoid conflict of interest.
Mississippi is one of 27 death penalty states, according to the Death Penalty Information Center, a national nonprofit providing analysis and information about capital punishment.
Here, capital murder can result in a death sentence. The decision to seek the death penalty is made by a district attorney and the sentence must be unanimously decided by a jury.
A killing is considered capital murder under several instances, including a murder committed during another crime such as a rape, arson or robbery; the death of a child as a result of battery or abuse and the murder of a firefighter or “peace officer” such as a police officer, sheriff or other law enforcement officer.
State law also lists treason and aircraft piracy as charges that carry the death penalty.
Previously, homicide/murder was a charge that carried the death penalty. Several of the incarcerated people on death row whose crimes were committed before 1998 have this charge.
Over the years, there have been changes to death penalty law in the state, including not executing juveniles, those found to be mentally incompetent and people who committed non-murder crimes.
The average age of people currently on death row is 48.8, according to a review of Mississippi Department of Corrections data. Richard Jordan, who is 76, is the oldest and Terry Pitchford, 36, is the youngest on death row.
Inmates have been on death row for an average of 20.1 years, according to MDOC data. Jordan has been there longest for 45 years and Alberto Garcia is the newest on death row and has been there for just under two years.
About 58% of death row inmates are Black and about 36% are white, according to MDOC data. The remaining percent are Hispanic or Asian – about 3% for each racial group.
Some have severe mental illness, Nobile said. Many of them had difficult life circumstances and were poor at the time their crimes were committed, she said.
Because the Office of Capital Post-Conviction Counsel is tasked by law to represent people serving on death row until their death, Nobile said she and her staff have built years-long relationships with them through visits to Parchman.
“Justice has to be at the forefront,” Nobile said about the office’s work. “We’re looking back on how a case turned out and if there is new evidence that could be looked at in the future.”
Dr. Cheryl Hamlin once attended a demonstration against the Iraq War in the Boston Common, but she’s never felt like much of a radical. Then she started providing abortions in Mississippi.
Hamlin, a 60-year-old OB-GYN at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Mass., spends three days a month at the state’s only abortion clinic in Jackson. Her work places her at the center of a decades-long national war that has culminated in the U.S. Supreme Court case poised to overturn the constitutional right to abortion: Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization.
The job is too dangerous for local physicians, so she and other out-of-state doctors fly in on a rotation.
Though Hamlin always thought being a doctor meant you were supposed to help people, she describes her career as “kind of ordinary.” A mix of idealism, principle and shock at the election of President Donald Trump led her to start working in Mississippi in 2017.
And last week, during what may well have been her final shift here, she wondered how far she would be willing to go to ensure access to abortion remains.
On Monday, June 6, a little before 4 p.m., she leaned over the steering wheel of her rental car as she pulled into the parking lot, in a hurry to get to her patients. They sat in idling sedans and SUVs, cranking up the air conditioning against a hot and sunny afternoon.
Standing on the sidewalk just beyond the metal fence that surrounds the pink stucco clinic – known around Jackson as the Pink House – Pam Miller watched the doctor drive up. Miller, a 67-year-old grandmother of seven, is a regular presence outside the Pink House, wearing her blue 40 Days For Life baseball cap and clutching a stack of pro-life pamphlets.
“That’s Cheryl Hamlin,” she said to Zach Boyd, another frequent protester. “She’s just now getting here.”
Hamlin didn’t notice them. And she wasn’t thinking about the seemingly imminent fall of Roe and the end to a constitutional right to abortion in the United States – at least not directly.
She was thinking about her patients. She felt the extra pressure of knowing that clinics across the Southeast are packed with people seeking abortions, that some of them had driven hours for their appointments, and that soon it could be too late.
A clinic staffer came out of the building to tell patients they could come inside.
Boyd held out a tan rubber fetus, smaller than his fist.
“God’s going to judge you,” he called to the clinic employee.
“Why are you worrying about what I’m doing?” she shouted back. “Worry about yourself.”
If the final ruling in Dobbs hews to the draft opinion that leaked in early May, the Pink House will close. The clinic and some of the staff will move to New Mexico. Hamlin will join them there once a month, just as she has done in Mississippi for the last five years.
“I don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on that fact,” Hamlin said of the possibility that this shift could be her last in Jackson. “But I guess I’ve been reading too much – it’s starting to affect my mind.”
While Hamlin began work inside the clinic, a young couple waited in their car down the block. As college students, they said, they’re not financially stable. They’re not ready to have a baby. The young woman had called Planned Parenthood in her home state, but they had referred her to Jackson.
The pregnancy was already causing health complications, and they were thinking about their future. There was nothing any protester or pamphlet could say to change their minds.
“I feel like everyone thinks that it’s an easy decision,” the woman said. “It’s really not.”
Dr. Cheryl Hamlin gets ready to drive to the airport after completing her shift at the Jackson Women’s Health Organization in Jackson, Miss., Thursday, June 9, 2022. Dr. Hamlin travels from Massachusetts to Jackson to assist patients seeking abortions. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
On Wednesday morning, six women sat in high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle inside a narrow room in the back of the clinic. A purple sign taped to a door said “Everyone loves someone who had an abortion.”
The patients gripped medical forms or held their hands together on their laps; one rocked back and forth in her seat, and another crossed her legs and jiggled her foot.
“Hi ladies, how are you doing?” said Hamlin, taking her seat at the front of the room. The doctor has short hair and an air of friendly professionalism.
“So, I’m Cheryl Hamlin, the doctor for the week, and I’ll be doing your counseling.”
She described the risks of the procedure: infection, blood transfusion, uterine perforation.
“To put it all in perspective, if you were giving birth, I would tell you you have all the same risks, but many more,” she said.
She delivered the line required by Mississippi law, that abortion increases risk of breast cancer.
“Nobody thinks it’s true. I’m pretty sure Governor Reeves doesn’t think it’s true, but it’s a state law that I say those words,” she told them. She recited another required line: If the only reason for the procedure is financial, “there may be organizations that will assist you as well as the father of the pregnancy should be providing child support.”
Then she turned to what she called “the elephant in the room:” the Supreme Court’s impending decision in the case that started with this clinic. In the best case scenario, she said, the Court will uphold Mississippi’s law and allow it to forbid abortions after 15 weeks.
Since the Pink House currently provides the procedure through 16 weeks, that outcome wouldn’t make a major difference for the clinic.
“The more likely and worst-case scenario is they overturn Roe,” she continued. “This clinic, and every clinic through most of the South and Midwest, is going to close.”
She urged her patients to vote. Then she moved on to explain the process for surgical abortions and for medication abortions.
Next came individual counseling. Each person had a number to indicate her turn in line. Hamlin told them to keep an eye on her office door. Lately, as abortion clinics across the country have cut back services, the Pink House has been busy, and the process is designed for efficiency.
“When she comes out, you go right on in,” she said. “You guys pay attention, don’t wait for me to call you, and we’ll get you right on out of here.”
The individual counseling room is a small office shared between the doctors when they come to the clinic for their shifts. Hamlin sat behind a broad, dark wooden desk. The patients sat in a chair across from her.
None of the generic furnishings reflected anything of Hamlin; this was the clinic’s office, not hers.
The fifth patient to talk to Hamlin was a young woman in running shorts.
“Come on in, how are you doing?” Hamlin said.
“Good,” the woman replied as she sat down.
Hamlin looked at her medical records spread on the desk.
“You’re 15 weeks, so you have to come…” She paused, glancing up at the monthly calendar taped next to her seat. It was June 8.
The calendar showed Hamlin’s shift, which would end just before 1 p.m. the next day, and another doctor’s shift on June 10 and 11. But that doctor only performs abortions through 13 weeks.
“So it’ll be the next available…” Hamlin looked at the calendar again. “…is the 16th or 17th. Gosh. You’re 15 – we’re not going to get you in.”
The woman’s face betrayed no emotion. She explained that the nurse who performed her ultrasound had said the doctor might be able to do the procedure on Friday.
“Aaah,” Hamlin said in a high-pitched tone. “Let me just make sure what I’m saying is true.”
She ran the math in her head: The woman was already 15 weeks pregnant. The next time a doctor at the clinic could perform the procedure, she would be more than 16 weeks pregnant – past the clinic’s cut-off date.
Hamlin left the room. The woman looked at her phone on her lap.
Two minutes later, Hamlin came back. The patient wouldn’t be able to get an abortion in Jackson.
“But we can help refer you, we have a relationship with Huntsville, Alabama, that can do beyond (16 weeks),” she said.
“OK,” the woman replied. Hamlin guided her out of the room to talk to a staffer about the referral.
These were the limits of choice, even with Roe still technically the law of the land.
The patient might have waited weeks to get her first appointment at the Pink House because Texans were streaming into every clinic in the South following that state’s recent ban on abortions after six weeks. Then she ran into Mississippi’s mandatory 24-hour waiting period.
And the threats and harassment directed against local abortion providers meant that when Hamlin flew home to Boston, there would be no one in the state who could or would perform the procedure for days – critical days.
The Alabama Women’s Center in Huntsville, which performs abortions up to 21 weeks and six days, is more than five hours from Jackson by car. The clinic sees about five patients who have been referred from the Pink House every week, according to its office manager Makeda Harris.
That state has a 48-hour waiting period, meaning Hamlin’s patient would likely have to spend two nights in an unfamiliar city or make a long round-trip drive twice.
Hamlin felt terrible realizing that her patient would just barely miss out on being able to get an abortion in Mississippi.
Cases like this one raised the question of how much she was willing to sacrifice.
“I could do it today, but it’s a law that I can’t,” she said. “How many hoops do you jump through? … Should I stay a little bit later? I’ve done stuff like that, but you can also make yourself completely insane. If I miss my plane, I’ll be a really unhappy person … You can’t make yourself completely crazy.”
The constraints on the Pink House limit patient options in another way: Because there are so few slots available for surgical appointments, those whose pregnancies are under 11 weeks are urged to opt for a medication abortion.
During Hamlin’s consultations on Wednesday morning, two patients whose pregnancies were early said they were scared of the pills and wanted a surgical abortion. Hamlin said she doesn’t hear that very often, and since the doctor coming in on Friday and Saturday could do the surgeries, she didn’t try to push them to take the pills.
“You want to give people all the choices,” she said. “If just one person does that, no big deal. But if people start coming in for their eight-week, seven-week surgical procedure, pretty soon we’re not going to fit all the 15-weekers in. So it’s always that balance of, how can you help the most people?”
Derenda Hancock, a longtime clinic escort, waits for patients to arrive at the Jackson Women’s Health Organization in Jackson, Miss., Tuesday, June 7, 2022. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
The war outside the Pink House started years before Hamlin first arrived in Mississippi.
In the 1980s, Mississippi had more than a dozen abortion clinics. Around the country, the number of providers began to fall as abortion opponents bombed clinics and harassed doctors. States also began imposing strict rules around clinic operations; in 1992, Mississippi passed the country’s first mandatory 24-hour waiting period.
By the following year, there were only three clinics. And in 2004, the Pink House became the last clinic standing.
Barbara Beavers, who has protested outside Mississippi’s abortion clinics for decades, remembers those days. She and her husband founded an anti-abortion pregnancy center in 1988.
At one point, she was a frequent presence outside a building that housed an abortion clinic on the second floor.
“Maybe a few times I did chase them up the stairs, and say, ‘Come home with us! Come home with us!’” she said, sitting in a camp chair outside the Pink House on Tuesday afternoon. “My husband liberated me to do that, and we’ve had girls in our home.”
“Here, we have to stand here,” she said, reminiscing about the days of easier access to patients. “We have to shout at them for them to hear us.”
Since Derenda Hancock established the Pink House Defenders in 2013, the volunteers have served as a buffer between patients and the people aiming to dissuade them from entering the clinic. While escorts at other clinics may ignore protesters, the Defenders believe confrontation fights abortion stigma and can help change “the cultural narrative” around abortion.
Since the leaked opinion draft came out in early May, there have been relatively few protesters outside the clinic. Some of them are preaching and passing out supplies in Ukraine. Others, the street preachers, are using the early summer to do yard work. With June being LGBTQ Pride Month, some regulars are busy protesting those events.
For the escorts, this is a bitter time. Hancock and Kim Gibson, who joined the organization in 2017, have felt for years that this day would come. Now, the world is watching, and it’s too late.
They’re also exhausted, as the clinic’s operating days have increased from three days a week to five or sometimes six. They guide patients into the parking lot for up to 10 hours at a time while the temperature climbs into the 90s and the shade disappears.
“We’re just sitting here waiting for the ax,” Hancock said. “It just needs to go ahead.”
When Hamlin started working in Mississippi in 2017, she was motivated by the desire to help people outside of her “pretty nice bubble” in Boston.
She wanted to practice in a state where access to abortion is limited – so limited that advocates say many people already believe it is illegal here.
On the morning of Hamlin’s first full day at the clinic, an anti-abortion demonstrator known to the escorts as “Stepper” took up her usual spot down the street from the parking lot entrance. She declined to share her name with Mississippi Today; the nickname comes from her tendency to pace up and down the block as she waits.
“It’s a lot quieter than I thought it would be,” she said of the period since the leak. “I thought the community would have been all over this. That case is going to put Mississippi on the map.”
Around 9 a.m., a woman wearing a crucifix necklace got out of a car and headed toward the clinic. Stepper called out after her as the driver of the car idled outside the clinic.
“Do know that God loves you and you can make a different choice,” she said. The woman didn’t look at her.
“What is this?” asked the woman’s driver, a middle-aged woman who said she works for Uber, while gesturing at the Pink House. The passenger had told her she was going to work.
“This is an abortion clinic,” Stepper replied.
“I thought they outlawed that,” the driver said.
Brooke Jones poses for a portrait in Pearl, Miss., Wednesday, June 15, 2022. Jones is a sonogram and lab tech at the Jackson Women’s Health Organization. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Brooke Jones, a 28-year-old Jackson native and a sonogram and lab tech at the clinic, spent her afternoon break sitting on the patio with a bag of chips she decided she didn’t want to eat.
Jones said it feels like everyone at the Pink House is thinking about the upcoming Supreme Court ruling, but not talking about it much. What would she do if Roe were overturned and the clinic closed?
“Cry,” she said. “And not just because this is my job. Because it’s the only clinic in Mississippi.”
Jones has always been pro-choice. She joined the Pink House staff two years ago, thanks to an acquaintance who worked at the clinic and curiosity about what took place there.
Before that, she worked at group homes for kids.
“I know the kids they want you to keep and tell you the state is going to help – they treat them like shit,” she said.
If clinic director Shannon Brewer approves, Jones wants to move to New Mexico to work at the new facility Brewer and Pink House owner Diane Derzis are opening there. She’s made a list of pros and cons, and doesn’t see many cons. It’s a chance to keep doing the work she knows how to do and experience life in a new state.
In the meantime, she keeps coming to work. Every morning and every afternoon, she walks past the protesters. She’s memorized their lines.
“‘You can find something else, we can help you, let’s get you something else, you do not need the blood of innocent lives on your hands!’” she recited. “I’m like, ‘shut the hell up.’”
They don’t bother her, but patients sometimes say they were already scared and the protesters made it worse, she said.
Jones gestured toward Beavers, who was sitting in her camp chair by the fence.
“She’s going to sit there until everybody clocks out and walks to their car,” she said.
Then Jones went back to work to prepare for the afternoon’s surgical procedures.
Beavers, a leader of the pregnancy center movement in Mississippi, was hoping to get women to turn toward the Cline Center, a crisis pregnancy center across the street from the clinic, where they could get a free ultrasound. Around the country, these centers aim to dissuade women from seeking abortions and often offer supplies and parenting classes.
Now, they are the centerpiece of what Gov. Tate Reeves calls a “new pro-life agenda.”
The state’s nearly 40 centers can receive up to $3.5 million in tax credits thanks to a bill passed in the most recent legislative session. They are not regulated by the state department of health, and there are no rules or reporting requirements on how they spend the money.
Beavers said that after Roe falls, she wants to see the pro-life movement focus on helping women who have had abortions deal with “this hurt and this pain.” She has been praying for “revival.”
While Beavers has her priorities, Hamlin and those who work with her see a bigger problem to address: the lack of health care access in Mississippi, the state ranked at the bottom of most health indicators and one of only 12 that has not expanded Medicaid.
When Hamlin started working in Mississippi, she was shocked to meet so many patients who didn’t have health insurance, which meant they couldn’t afford to see a regular OB-GYN and often weren’t sure how to get or pay for birth control.
But Beavers doesn’t see much value in paying for people to get health care.
“We’re giving money to have babies without husbands, in my opinion,” she said.
“You can get health care in Mississippi,” she continued. “… They’re getting all their money from the government anyhow.”
Around 5 p.m., Beavers packed up and left for her weekly “post-abortion healing meeting” with women who have had abortions. They are told that accepting that they killed their child “is the first step in grieving,” according to a lesson plan Beavers shared.
Not long after Beavers left, a 24-year-old woman walked out of the clinic holding a bag of pills and started down the block toward her car. She had just taken the first pill involved in a medication abortion, and within the next 48 hours she would take the second set.
“I’m young, and I already have children. I’m a single mother,” she said. “And it’s already basically hard for me. I’ve barely got my head above water, with the high gas prices and basically we’re in a recession, they just don’t want to admit it … I think it would be selfish to bring another child into this world, and I’m knowing that I’m not able, physically or emotionally or mentally.”
Even making $15 an hour, she was just scraping by, she said.
Growing up in Jackson, she saw the anti-abortion protesters around town from time to time. They once posted up outside her high school with big posters of fetuses, which felt to her like harassment.
She had mostly managed to ignore them walking into her appointments at the clinic. When she heard them offer help, she didn’t believe it. Would they help her pay for housing and child care? Would they do that for the dozens of people who visited the clinic every week?
“Y’all don’t know us by a cat or a dog walking down the street,” she said. “When they go home, they’re living comfortably, without a care in the world, besides what’s going on with our bodies.”
If Roe falls, advocates expect the nearest abortion clinic will be in southern Illinois, a seven-hour drive from Jackson. Would she make trip?
“I would go,” she said.
A demonstrator stops a car as they arrive at the Jackson Women’s Health Organization in Jackson, Miss., Tuesday, June 7, 2022. Credit: Eric Shelton/Mississippi Today
Just before 8:45 a.m. on what might end up being her final day working at the clinic, Hamlin turned off State Street and angled into the clinic parking lot. As the escorts waved her to her parking spot, 78-year-old David Lane left his place across the street and walked toward the driveway.
“Cheryl, you need to quit killing the babies!” he called. “You’ll answer for every child you’ve ever killed. Won’t you repent and quit killing the babies?”
As Hamlin got out of her car, escorts stood nearby, eyeing Lane.Because the protesters aren’t allowed to cross onto clinic property, Lane kept shouting at Hamlin from yards away.
“We know you make a lot of money, but it won’t do you any good when you’re in a casket and your soul burns in hell for dying as a murderer. Won’t you quit?”
Lane had no megaphone—the protesters who’d left for Ukraine typically brought that. Hamlin couldn’t even hear him, but that didn’t matter to Lane: He shouted at her as a matter of duty and custom.
Hamlin disappeared into the clinic, and Lane shuffled back to his chair. He understands why the clinic’s doctors must travel from out of state. He helped make it that way.
“Nobody will do abortions from Mississippi here because they’d get recognized. They don’t like people coming to their house,” he said. “We go to the neighborhoods and tell everybody in the neighborhood what they do. They don’t like that. But if it’ll get rid of them, and it’s legal, we’ll do it.”
The likely closure of the Pink House will change Lane’s life, and that of his brother, Doug, who also protests regularly. Before Doug left for Ukraine two weeks earlier, the brothers were driving down the road together. Doug put his arm around David’s shoulder, and David could tell he was about to cry.
“He said, ‘David, I’m sorry that we didn’t get to do what we planned,’” Lane recalled. “And our daddy raised us hunting and fishing. And what we wanted to do was retire one day, and go hunting and fishing. But now we come here.”
He paused to envision the world after the Court rules in Dobbs.
“So I’ll, maybe I’ll get to do a little hunting, and maybe I’ll get to do a little fishing.”
Hamlin walked out of the clinic just before 1 p.m. on Thursday. The parking lot was nearly empty. The escorts had left for the day. There were no protesters damning her to hell.
As she started the 20-minute drive to the airport, she thought about her work in Mississippi and what might come next.
In what she considered an otherwise standard career, performing abortions in Mississippi had, from the very beginning, felt bold. When she applied for her license to practice here, she almost hoped it wouldn’t arrive. Then it came in the mail.
“I’m like, ‘OK, here we go,’” she said.
Now, she was questioning how bold she was willing to be.
“I do feel like this is bigger than just abortion rights, and it really scares me,” she said. “And I’m feeling like … for the first time, questioning … How far am I going to take this? Would I do something illegal? I mean, I don’t know. Right now I don’t think I want to. I’m going to try to do everything through legal means. But…”
She paused.
“I guess at some point, if it’s really people’s lives at stake, I might.”
At the rental car drop-off, she got her duffel bag and backpack out of the Honda and retrieved a stray Earl Gray tea bag from the passenger seat. She walked across the parking lot into the airport, up the escalator and past the bust of Medgar Evers to security, a route she’s taken dozens of times before. She finished a can of seltzer, dropped it in a trash can, and headed for home.
She wasn’t sure when she would be back in Jackson. If Roe falls, the Pink House will close, and she’ll go to New Mexico for her next rotation.
But during her shift, she asked Brewer if she ought to buy tickets for July, just in case the Court doesn’t overturn Roe. Brewer said yes. So Hamlin left her spare t-shirts, running shoes, shampoo and toothbrush in the doctors’ shared apartment and booked her next trip to Jackson.
Correction 6/16/22: This story has been updated to reflect that Brooke Jones’ correct title is sonogram and lab tech. An earlier version of the story identified her as a nurse.
When Trump’s own staff members, defenders and daughter say under oath that the election was NOT stolen, it just isn’t a good look to continue to promote conspiracies. In fact, it is, as Bill Barr said, BS.
The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) announced Wednesday that they are suing to stop the state from giving $10 million in pandemic relief funds to private schools, as they say it violates the state Constitution.
The Legislature passed the bills appropriating this money at the end of the 2022 session in early April, a move that frustrated some advocates and legislators. The money comes from the American Rescue Plan Act (ARPA), which gave the Mississippi Legislature $1.8 billion to spend on pandemic response, government services, and infrastructure improvements to water, sewer, and broadband.
The bills also allocated $10 million to private colleges and universities for similar purposes, but those dollars are not challenged in this suit.
The lawsuit claims that since the Mississippi Constitution prohibits the expenditure of any public funds for private schools, the money allocated earlier this session is unconstitutional and asks for the court to block the state from enforcing the laws, which take effect July 1.
Senate Accountability, Efficiency and Transparency Chair John Polk, R-Hattiesburg, told his colleagues who were opposed to the bills that the private schools had been impacted by COVID-19 and needed help to improve their infrastructure with the federal funds.
“We want to make sure they have some ability to improve their conditions,” he said.
During the lengthy debate of the legislation, though, no one brought up constitutionality.
Section 208, the portion of the Mississippi Constitution in question, reads:
“No religious or other sect or sects shall ever control any part of the school or other educational funds of this state; nor shall any funds be appropriated toward the support of any sectarian school, or to any school that at the time of receiving such appropriation is not conducted as a free school.”
Mississippi Today also questioned the legality of this spending in April.
“Educational funding that comes from taxpayer money should be used for public schools that are open to everyone, free of charge,” said Rob McDuff, a Mississippi Center for Justice attorney who is also working on this case. ”That’s why the Mississippi Constitution says that public money can only be spent on public schools and not private schools. If people want to pay money to send their children to private schools, that’s their business, but the taxpayers’ money shouldn’t go to those schools — it should go to the public schools that are open to everyone.”
The ACLU is suing on behalf of Parents for Public Schools, a Jackson-based nonprofit. Becky Glover, a policy analyst with Parents for Public Schools, called the bills passed earlier this year a “clear violation” of the state Constitution.
“The state and its taxpayers need to be responsible stewards of our public schools,” Glover said. “The Mississippi taxpayers are doing their part financially and legally to support public schools, but they need and deserve to count on the state to do its part too. The bottom line is, public money should stay with public schools.”
We knew last week there would be a strong Mississippi flavor to the 2022 College World Series. That’s because we knew Ole Miss and Southern Miss were playing for the right to go to Omaha.
Rick Cleveland
But we didn’t know the half of it.
Ole Miss swept Southern Miss and arrived in Omaha Wednesday. There, the Rebels, with their 11 Mississippi natives on the roster, will likely bump into several others with strong Mississippi ties.
Start with the Auburn Tigers, Ole Miss’ first round opponent Saturday at 6 p.m. The Auburn manager is none other than Amory product Butch Thompson, the former pitching coach for John Cohen at Mississippi State. Long before Thompson became a widely respected coach, be was an Amory Wildcats football standout for Mississippi coaching legend Bobby Hall.
“Butch played defensive end for me way back when,” Hall said. “Tough, tough kid. He was from the Wren community, about three miles due west on Highway 78. We had lots of really good, really tough football players from Wren and he was one. His senior year (1987) we made it to the State Championship game.”
Thompson, a lefty, also pitched for Amory and then for Itawamba Community College. He retains close ties across the state. Indeed, Bryson Ware, a part-time starter as a junior in the outfield for the Tigers, played high school ball at Germantown, where he was a first-team all-state selection.
Win or lose Saturday, Ole Miss will run into another Mississippian on Monday. The Auburn-Ole Miss winner will play the the Arkansas-Stanford winner Monday at 6 p.m. The losers will play Monday at 1 p.m.
Freshman All-American Braden Montgomery of Madison Central, Mississippi’s 2021 high school player of the year, is a two-way standout for Stanford. Brady Tygart, a true freshman pitcher from Lewisburg, has been outstanding out of the bullpen for Arkansas.
Montgomery, Stanford’s cleanup hitter and an outstanding defensive outfielder, also started three games as a pitcher and pitched in relief in 12 other games. Seems as though there’s nothing Montgomery, who hit 18 home runs and drove home 57 runs, can’t do in baseball — or in the classroom. He scored a perfect 36 on the ACT, presumably why he turned down what would have been seven-figure contract in professional baseball to attend Stanford.
Says Madison Central baseball coach Patrick Robey, “I am lucky. Some guys coach their entire lives and never get to coach one as great as Braden. The young man is just so talented and so focused. Nothing he does surprises me.”
Should Ole Miss and Stanford play one another on Monday, the game would feature a rematch of Ole Miss freshman left hander Hunter Elliott pitching to Montgomery, as happened in the first game of last year’s 6A North State championship series when Madison Central played Elliott’s Tupelo High School. Montgomery won a 2-0 pitchers duel in what Robey called “one of the best high school baseball games I’ve ever seen.”
Both Elliott and Montgomery were honored this season as freshmen All-Americans. So, too, was Arkansas’ Tygart. The strapping right-hander, who played for Lewisburg and lives in Hernando, pitched in 23 games out of the bullpen for the Razorbacks and led the team in saves with eight — more than twice as many as any other on the pitching staff. He struck out 51 batters in 37.2 innings.
Think about it: Three of the key pitchers on three different teams on one side of the College World Series bracket all pitched just last year in the Mississippi Class 6A baseball tournament.
Says Robey, the Madison Central coach, “It just shows how much talent — and how good the baseball is — in Mississippi. I mean, we’ve got Mississippi State, the defending national champion in college baseball, and Pearl River, which won the national junior college championship, and Ole Miss and Southern both in a Super Regional. All of them have a lot of Mississippi guys. It’s amazing, really, and it just keeps getting better and better and better.”
Vaccine advisers to the U.S. Food and Drug Administration on Wednesday voted unanimously in favor of expanding the emergency use authorizations for the Pfizer and Moderna COVID-19 vaccines to include children under 5 years old.
The roughly 18 million children younger than 5 are the only Americans not yet eligible for vaccination against COVID-19.
There are around 183,000 children in Mississippi in this age group.
Here’s what you need to know.
What happens now?
The FDA is not required to follow the adviser’s recommendation but is likely to do so. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention will still have to weigh in on that decision if it comes, but if the agency gives its approval as well, vaccines could become available for children in this age group as soon as next week.
Are the vaccines for children different than the adult vaccines?
Both vaccines use the same messenger RNA technology, but the dosage and regimens for young children differ from adults’. Moderna’s regimen will include two doses at one-quarter the strength of adult doses, while Pfizer’s requires three doses at one-tenth the strength of adult doses.
Pfizer’s vaccine is the only one currently approved for use in children ages 5 and older.
How did the approval for children happen?
A panel of outside vaccine experts met and reviewed the safety and efficacy data submitted by both vaccine manufacturers. The process was the same for the FDA’s approval of COVID-19 vaccines for each age group.
Are the vaccines for children effective?
In its analyses of Pfizer and Moderna data, the FDA said both vaccines are effective in preventing symptomatic infection. Pfizer’s vaccine appeared 80% effective at preventing a symptomatic COVID-19 infection in children under five. Moderna’s vaccine was around 40% to 50% effective for children under 6.
“Pediatricians and parents are eager to have a COVID vaccine for children down to the age of 6 months,” Dr. Anita Henderson, President of the Mississippi Chapter of the American Academy of Pediatrics and a pediatrician at The Pediatric Clinic in Hattiesburg, said in a statement to Mississippi Today. “We are seeing an increase in COVID cases right now in Mississippi, and we must remember that over the last two years, 13 children in our state have lost their life to COVID. Many additional children have had MIS-C (multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children) and other complications from COVID-19. If the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines are approved for use among children 6 months and older, pediatricians would welcome the opportunity to protect this age group as well.”
Are the vaccines for children safe?
The clinical trials of Pfizer and Moderna vaccines for children showed minimal side effects.
“Given the uncertainty of the COVID-19 pandemic and likelihood of continued SARS-CoV-2 transmission during the ensuing months, deployment of the vaccine for use among children 6 months through 4 years of age will likely have a beneficial effect on COVID-19-associated morbidity and mortality in this age group,” the FDA said.
How many children under five have gotten COVID-19?
More than 30,000 children younger than 5 have been hospitalized with COVID-19 in the U.S., and nearly 500 coronavirus deaths have been reported in that age group, according to United States Surgeon General Dr. Vivek H. Murthy.
In Mississippi, children under 5 have comprised less than 5% of the state’s monthly COVID-19 cases for the majority of the pandemic.
How can I get the vaccine for my child?
The Mississippi Department of Health has pre-ordered doses of Pfizer and Moderna’s vaccines for children, and the shots will be available as soon as next week. The vaccine will be made available for children under 5 at MSDH clinics, and parents will be able to schedule appointments through the agency’s website.
State Epidemiologist Dr. Paul Byers said MSDH will recommend that parents vaccinate their children under 5 if the FDA approves the shots.
Nine proposed charter schools have made it to the second round of Mississippi’s application process.
The applicants are all looking to open in 2023, with all but one run by new operators.
While most schools would offer just one or two grades at launch, if approved they would eventually serve a larger group of students. They are:
Columbus Leadership Academy, grades K-8 in the Columbus Municipal School District
Level-Up Academy Public, grades K-12 in the Greenville Public School District
Mound Bayou New Millennial High, grades 7-12 in the North Bolivar Consolidated School District
Natchez-Adams Early Childhood and Intermediate Center, grades K-5 in the Natchez-Adams School District
Resilience Academy of Teaching Excellence, grades K-5 in the East Tallahatchie and North Bolivar School Districts
Southwest Mississippi Academy of Health Sciences, grades 6-12 in the Natchez-Adams School District
Southwest Mississippi Conservatory for Performing and Media Arts, grades 6-12 in the Natchez-Adams School District
Clarksdale Collegiate Prep, grades 7-12 in the Clarksdale Municipal School District.
Instant Impact Global Prep, grades K-8 in the Natchez Adams School District
The applicants that have made it to this stage will be reviewed by an outside evaluator whose findings will be released in July. Final decisions on each potential school will be announced in September.
Charter schools are free public schools that do not report to a school board like traditional public schools. Instead, they are governed by the Mississippi Charter School Authorizer Board, which oversees the application process to open a new charter school. They have more flexibility for teachers and administrators when it comes to student instruction, and are funded by local school districts based on enrollment.
Charter schools can apply directly to the authorizer board if they’re planning to open in a D or F district. If an operator wants to open in an A, B, or C district, they need to get approval from the local school board. All of the proposed schools being reviewed this cycle would be opening in D or F districts.
Currently, Mississippi has eight charter schools. Most are located in Jackson, but there are schools in Clarksdale and Greenwood.
Amanda Johnson, the operator of Clarksdale Collegiate Public Charter School, said she is applying to expand her school, in part, because parents have asked her for it.
“We made promises to those families to do what we needed to do to prepare their child for success in high school and beyond,” Johnson said. “We feel this is a continuation of the work we are already doing to prepare our scholars for college and career success.”
Johnson said she feels Clarksdale Collegiate Public, which serves about 70 students per grade in grades K-5, has been very successfully received by the community thus far. They have had to accelerate their growth plan twice, and have a waiting list that Johnson described as “healthy.”
The decision to open a middle and high school is also rooted in their commitment to the students in the Delta, Johnson explained, saying that it has always been central to their mission to ensure Delta children can achieve at high levels.
“For us, it’s about making sure our kids are prepared to have opportunities so that they can pursue whatever they are interested in — whether it be military, four-year college, or vocational, we want to make sure that we are providing opportunities for them and making space for their passions,” Johnson said.
They are currently authorized to serve students through the eighth grade, but are planning to reorganize so that one facility serves K-6 and the other 7-12. Johnson said they plan to begin serving seventh graders as Clarksdale Collegiate Prep in the fall of 2023.
The only thing hotter than the temperature in Hades-burg was the Ole Miss bats and arms. Now the Rebels are headed to Nebraska for the College World Series. On this week’s pod, Rick and Tyler break down last week’s Super Regional and take a look ahead at what awaits the eight teams that have punched their ticket to Omaha.
When two winter storms struck the city of Jackson last year, it wasn’t the snow. It wasn’t the ice. It was the water.
Century-old pipes burst, leaving residents of Mississippi’s capital city without running water. Schools and businesses closed, and some residents went for a month without water.
The disaster brought the need for safe, clean water into clear focus, and last August, President Joe Biden pointed to the problem in a televised address: “Never again can we allow what happened in Flint, Michigan, and Jackson Mississippi. We can never let it happen again.”
More than 30 million Americans live where water systems have violated safety rules. That problem is even more acute in Mississippi, which is filled with small, often antiquated water systems. Of the state’s 1,200 public water systems, about 70% are rural systems serving 1,000 homes or less, most of which were built in the late 1960s or early 1970s.
Some communities provide no water at all, forcing residents to turn to well water, which often goes without testing.
When testing is done, it may detect heavy metals. In 2015, high levels of lead appeared in Jackson’s drinking water. Since then, two-thirds of all water samples have contained at least a trace amount of the metal.
Mississippi Spotlight* and Consumer Reports are partnering to test water systems across Mississippi with volunteers who will use a special testing kit to take samples that will then be analyzed in a lab for any heavy metals or PFAS. We will share individual results with volunteers once the testing is complete.
Tests of drinking water across the nation have also detected synthetic chemicals, including PFAs, which have been linked to a range of health woes.
Would you like to help us test the water in your community? Is there a story about water quality where you live that you would like to share with us?
Volunteer to be a water tester
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