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Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
The unforgiving reality of cash bail transforms “innocent until proven guilty” into “guilty until proven wealthy.”
When I was 17, I was charged with a crime I didn’t commit.
During an argument, I was arrested and wrongfully accused of threatening someone with a firearm, which I hadn’t done. My bail was set impossibly high, far beyond what I could afford, especially as a father to a newborn son. Forced to wait for my day in court behind bars, I came to a heartbreaking realization: If I or someone in my family had been wealthy, I could have walked free. Instead, I was denied my presumption of innocence and ripped from my family because I couldn’t pay for my freedom.
The American criminal justice system, which promises equal justice under the law, punishes poverty, tears families apart, and devastates communities like mine.
We need a system where release is based on case-by-case assessments of safety, not wealth.
Sadly, my story isn’t unique. It reflects a system that routinely prioritizes wealth over justice, especially for Black Americans. As someone who personally faced the burdens of cash bail and now works to alleviate that burden for others through The Bail Project—a national nonprofit providing free bail assistance and pretrial support to thousands of low-income people every year—I firmly believe that we have two systems of justice: one for the wealthy and one for everyone else.
This system incarcerates over 60% of people arrested before trial simply because they can’t afford bail. Safety, not wealth or race, should determine who is held or released before trial. Yet, wealth often dictates freedom. Many accused face nonviolent, low-level charges and pose no risk to public safety, but the unforgiving reality of cash bail transforms “innocent until proven guilty” into “guilty until proven wealthy.”
When someone is arrested, a court can impose a cash bail amount: a sum of money required for their release before trial. If you have the funds, you’re released from jail, no matter the circumstances. If you don’t, you’re locked up. Sometimes for weeks, months, or even years.
Judges tasked with setting bail often make these critical decisions in less than five minutes, relying on limited information and implicit biases that disproportionately affect Black defendants, during hearings that rarely require evidence, and often proceed without legal counsel for the defendants. As a result, Black defendants are detained more often than white defendants facing the same charges. On average, courts impose bail amounts nearly $10,000 higher for Black individuals than their white counterparts.
This disparity has devastating consequences, especially in communities of color. Being jailed before trial makes it harder to fight your case, leading many to plead guilty, even if they’re innocent, just to get out. It risks jobs, housing, physical health, and child custody while exposing legally innocent people to unsafe and traumatizing jail conditions.
Consider Christopher, a Black Gulf War veteran who was arrested for alleged possession of a controlled substance. His bail was set at $1,000: an insurmountable sum for him. Christopher was forced to wait in jail for six weeks before his case was dismissed. During that time, he lost his job as a house painter and his PTSD worsened. All of that suffering, and it was for nothing.
Then there’s Ashley, a Black woman eight months pregnant when a scheduling error led to her arrest for a nonviolent misdemeanor. Unable to pay a $11,500 bail, Ashley spent three weeks in a filthy, overcrowded jail cell, sleeping on the floor without a mattress. She lost her job, her apartment, and was forced to sleep in her car with her newborn daughter after giving birth.
We need a system that ensures fairness and protects safety for everyone. We need a system where release is based on case-by-case assessments of safety, not wealth.
Fortunately, alternatives to cash bail exist and work. Illinois became the first state to completely eliminate cash bail in 2023, and judges now determine who needs to be detained pretrial based on risk to others, not money. This shift has kept communities safe while reducing the number of people needlessly incarcerated pretrial. Nationally, more than 30 cities have safely minimized the use of cash bail, according to research from the Brennan Center for Justice.
This Black History Month, as we reflect on how far we’ve come and how far we still have to go to achieve racial equality, let’s not overlook the urgent need for bail reform. Ending cash bail is more than public policy; it’s a moral imperative.
It’s time to put an end to cash bail and write a safer, fairer future for everyone.
Since the Salvadorian leader began his war on gangs, easily 25,000 (and likely many more) innocent people have been arrested and held under inhumane conditions, including extreme overcrowding.
Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele had a huge (though controversial) electoral victory in February 2024. But a small, stubborn legal movement is challenging his popular, indiscriminate war against gangs.
Even as the reduction of gang violence brings relief to many Salvadorans, many low-income people see their law-abiding neighbors being swept up arbitrarily in Bukele’s war. Understandably, they fear the so-called security forces.
During a November 2024 tour in the United States, attorneys Ingrid Escobar and Óscar Rosales of Socorro Jurídico Humanitario (SJH or Humanitarian Legal Aid ) were clear: They do not oppose the legal arrest and incarceration of gang members. But they’re resisting a suspension of constitutional rights that’s proven to be capricious in practice, cruel, dangerous, and deadly.
MS-13 killed 87 people during the last weekend of March 2022. At Bukele’s direction, the Legislative Assembly implemented Article 29, resulting in an extraordinary emergency measure called a “state of exception.” With it, “the rights to freedom of association and assembly, and privacy in communications, as well as some due process protections” were temporarily suspended. “Temporarily” has become long-term.
Of the 83,000 who have been detained during Bukele’s war against gangs, SJH estimates that only 40% are actually gang members, another 30% have collaborated with gangs (often unwillingly and sometimes under threat of death), and the remaining 30% (most of them also charged with collaboration) are actually innocent of any gang affiliation at all.
The denial of the presumption of innocence and a lack of access to legal representation and family are harrowing for detainees, as well as their loved ones.
So, easily 25,000 (and likely many more) innocent people have been arrested and held under inhumane conditions, including extreme overcrowding. Some released prisoners report 150 detainees sharing a single toilet, multiple people sharing a single bed, and those who can’t access a bed sleeping on floors with excrement.
In mid-November, Bukele stated that 8,000 state-of-exception prisoners had been released. But, according to Escobar, hundreds of release orders have been ignored. Former detainee Melvin Ortiz had received 24 such orders but was only released after his case was taken to the United Nations.
SJH claims there were at least 330 deaths in detention between April 27, 2022 and the end of October 2024. About half were due to violence, 40% to medical neglect, and 10% to terminal illness. Notably, 94% of those 330 decedents did not belong to gangs.
Considering the cumulative institutional brutality, these deaths aren’t surprising. Some released prisoners report “welcome beatings” by prison guards upon incarceration, extreme malnutrition, dehydration (prisoners receive four ounces of water to drink daily), torture, and a lack of medications or medical care.
There is psychological trauma, too. The denial of the presumption of innocence and a lack of access to legal representation and family are harrowing for detainees, as well as their loved ones.
One government official told Leslie Schuld, director of Centro de Intercambio y Solidaridad: “We are throwing out nets to capture gang members and then we will release the innocent people caught in the nets.” But statistics from the past 32 months show that, once imprisoned, it’s easier to become entangled in those metaphorical nets than be released.
In practice, anyone—but it’s usually people in low-income neighborhoods—can be arrested under the state of exception. SJH reports that police and military personnel arrest arbitrarily to fulfill quotas. Allegations against persons can be made anonymously—which has proven handy for unscrupulous people with grudges, unwelcome competitors, or even romantic rivals. People are arrested for their tattoos (one young man was detained for having a rose tattoo honoring his mother, Rosa), for haircuts or clothing deemed suspicious, for having an old criminal record, or for having been deported from the United States.
“The fear we have is that we’ll be the next ones he arrests despite never having broken the law.”
Sandra Leticia Hernández fits several of these categories. After serving a sentence in Ilopango prison, she returned to Isla El Espíritu Santo where she lived with her lesbian life partner. Business competitors resented her thriving motorcycle-taxi service as well as her sexual orientation. Sandra was arrested first—and then her partner, Eidi Roxana Claros de Zaldaña, was detained when she made inquiries about her. Sandra was released eventually, while Eidi remains incarcerated.
Young Salvadorans are deeply affected by state-of-exception injustices. Human Rights Watch has observed that many children in low-income barrios are doubly traumatized: once preyed upon by gangs, they are now targeted by the police and state security forces. Over 3,000 children have been arrested; detainees as young as 12 years old can receive prison sentences of up to 10 years.
Additionally, both SJH and Columbia University’s Center for Mexico and Central America claim that, in El Salvador, “an estimated 100,000 children and adolescents had been effectively orphaned” after their parents disappeared into detention. SJH reports that many of these children lack basic necessities and some of them experience one or more of the following: depression, weight loss, eating disorders, nightmares, hyperactivity, aggressiveness, and fear and anger toward the military and police.
Finally, troublesome critics of corporations and the government—such as union members denouncing corruption, social activists, and human-rights defenders—are targeted. That includes the SJH. At a press conference, Escobar talked about the scrutiny they’re under: “These [investigatory] actions include surveillance and monitoring of our homes, workplaces, and the facilities of the Humanitarian Legal Aid. We have confirmed [this] through license plates on vehicles that are used solely for police purposes.”
But SJH isn’t deterred. In addition to providing full legal accompaniment to 100 innocent clients, SJH is rendering habeas corpus services to another 2,600. And because many of its clients were sole breadwinners, SJH provides material support to their families. So far, SJH has secured the release of 50 innocents, after taking some of their cases to international courts.
Escobar declares on her X page: “Tengo sed, sed de #Justicia.” She is thirsty for justice—but it’s risky. Elsewhere she’s acknowledged, “The fear we have is that we’ll be the next ones he arrests despite never having broken the law.”
SJH has a loud collective voice that carries far. It regularly denounces the Bukele administration’s violations of human rights in national and international settings. Surely these defenders of El Salvador’s hard-won but vulnerable democratic rights deserve our moral, political, and monetary support.
Please call senators and representatives through the U.S. Capitol switchboard at (202) 224-3121.Ask that U.S. aid for the Salvadoran armed forces be withheld until all innocents have been released and the prisons investigated independently.
As a physician delivering telemedicine-based addiction care to rural and low-income communities, the program has been the essential linchpin for creating access to lifesaving medications for opioid use disorder.
In an ironic twist, people recovering from opioid addiction recently gained permanently expanded access to telemedicine services through a new federal policy—but many are likely to be among the 22 million low-income households losing access to affordable internet.
The Federal Communications Commission recently began to wind down the Affordable Connectivity Program, the country’s largest, most successful internet affordability program. This government-sponsored benefit program, introduced during the pandemic, provides low-income Americans with a one-time subsidy to purchase an internet-capable device and monthly subsidies for broadband services.
As a physician delivering telemedicine-based addiction care to rural and low-income communities, the Affordable Connectivity Program has been the essential linchpin for creating telemedicine access to lifesaving medications for opioid use disorder.
I urge Congress to renew funding for the Affordable Connectivity Program and pursue legislative pathways to permanently expand internet access to all.
Substance use disorders are life-threatening chronic conditions, but they’re treatable. More than 70% of people with substance use disorders transition into recovery. However, early recovery is fragile. When people are ready to engage in care, low-barrier, rapid access to care is vitally important to support treatment success, especially during reentry from incarceration when the overdose risk is up to 129 times greater than community-based populations. Nearly half of people using opioids in rural areas were recently incarcerated, emphasizing the need for expanded rural access to treatment.
Yet, in-person addiction care is disproportionately limited in rural communities, requiring long drive times to access care. This is simply not an option for most of my patients, particularly those in early recovery. Most are trying to rebuild their lives while confronting significant financial debts incurred during past periods of expensive, prolonged substance use and incarceration. Stigma locks them out of high-earning positions, effectively segregating them to low-wage positions with limited opportunities for advancement and usually no access to benefits like paid time off to engage in care.
Many of us can get a leg up during hard times from family or peers. However, most patients in early recovery are at the starting line of repairing social relationships weakened by trust lost during active substance use and prolonged absence during incarceration. Often, the social supports they can access are facing similar resource-limited circumstances, with minimal ability or bandwidth to help with transportation or finances.
Every day, my patients choose what they can afford from a menu of necessities.
What will you have today?
Rarely can they cover more than one or two at a time. How could expensive, time-intensive travel to distant healthcare ever compete?
It shouldn’t have to. And thanks to the relaxation of telemedicine rules and the Affordable Connectivity Program, it hasn’t had to.
While the Affordable Connectivity Program’s $30 monthly subsidy sounds inconsequential, the true value of costs saved is much higher, as the collateral costs (e.g., transportation, lost-wages) of in-person services are avoided. With reliable access to data plans, my patients attend their medical appointments from their worksites during their lunch breaks or easily negotiate alternative breaks with their bosses, who are more willing to be flexible because work can quickly resume when patients remain on-site. This has allowed patients to consistently receive addiction treatment without incurring lost wages and transportation costs during the two-to-four-hour long process of in-person care. With their financial distress tempered, my patients have more quickly transitioned from survival mode to future planning.
The Affordable Connectivity Program also enabled internet access to key social resources that promote health and stability. My patients have taken online classes, searched and prepared for jobs, and built healthy social connections with online recovery communities, the latter particularly key for rural patients with limited in-person social options.
Funding for the Affordable Connectivity Program is projected to run out in April unless Congress acts quickly to renew funding. Amidst the Affordable Connectivity Program’s wind down, my team has begun switching patients to the remaining alternative telecommunication benefits for low-income households, like the Lifeline program. However, this inferior program provides only $9.95 monthly toward internet service—insufficient to cover the entire cost of a plan—and limited options of qualifying service providers. For my patients battling homelessness living in tents, cars, and motel room rentals while working tireless hours to survive and endeavor toward stable thriving, a $20 increase in monthly expenses is insurmountable.
The communities with significantly limited internet access—rural, low-income, Black—are also disproportionately impacted by the opioid crisis and low access to in-person treatment. Their precarious internet access falsely positions the internet as a luxury, rather than an essential resource for healthcare, education, employment, transportation, and social belonging. Internet access is a health equity issue.
I urge Congress to renew funding for the Affordable Connectivity Program and pursue legislative pathways to permanently expand internet access to all. Without swift action, I fear that losing the Affordable Connectivity Program will lead to more lives lost to treatable substance use disorders.