Category: Uncategorized

BRidging the Gap

Founder of BRidge Agency, headshot photo

Nicole Scott, the founder of The BRidge Agency, has a deeply personal connection to the work she does. “This is my life story,” she shared. “I am the single mom who used to drop my child off at school and then go sit in the library to learn how to start a business from the ground up.” 

Nicole’s experiences navigating systemic challenges fuel her passion for serving the families in her community.  “I understand that, and I think that’s one of the reasons I’m so passionate about this work—because my own lived experiences allow me to deeply relate to the families I serve,” she explained. 

Located in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, The BRidge Agency is dedicated to empowering marginalized communities by addressing systemic barriers such as disinvestment, limited access to education and economic opportunity, and the lack of mentoring. The organization focuses on education, mentorship, and connecting residents to resources to help break cycles of poverty and trauma leading to violent crimes.  

EJUSA is proud to partner with the BRidge Agency, offering 1:1 office hours, facilitating clinics that provide practical tools for building organization infrastructure and assisting with development plans to strengthen their youth programs and educational initiatives.

At the core of the BRidge Agency’s efforts, “We address the social-economic drivers of crime and those social disparities like poverty, lack of education, lack of quality, supportive education programs,” Nicole said. 

“If there’s a resource that exists in your community, but you have a barrier to understanding technology, then, of course, you can’t benefit from that,” Nicole pointed out. The agency works to break down these barriers, ensuring that families are equipped to thrive.

The BRidge Agency’s youth programs serve hundreds of young people each week. Nicole’s focus on mentorship and education extends beyond the classroom, offering opportunities for career exploration and community engagement. “We have our community clubs and circles where we meet in groups of 15 or 25,” she explained. These circles allow young people to discuss their experiences, build relationships, and prepare for the future.

The agency’s summer enrichment program also plays a crucial role. “It’s a free program, and we always offer paid internships for young people where they get to come in, learn advocacy skills, and connect with community leaders,” Nicole said. 

Nicole understands that working with youth alone is not enough; families must be supported as well. “I realized a long time ago, doing this work, helping and supporting the youth is phenomenal, but we’re sending them back to some of the same broken homes,” she said. 

“We’ve just brought on a social worker who is going to be instrumental in providing preventive education around physical, mental, and verbal abuse which occurs in some homes as a result of little to no positive youth development or parental skills in the home,” Nicole explained. This comprehensive approach ensures families are equipped to create a nurturing environment for their children.

Education is at the heart of the BRidge Agency’s mission. “We must be able to utilize every avenue possible to provide education, whether it’s in our faith-based communities, community centers… we have to always offer the opportunities for youth and families to expand their knowledge,” Nicole emphasized. 

From basic life skills to financial literacy, the Bridge Agency’s education programs empower individuals and families to overcome the challenges they face and achieve long-term success. As part of a broader community violence intervention and prevention ecosystem, The BRidge Agency’s work aligns with CVIPI strategies by addressing root causes of violence and building pathways to safety, healing, and opportunity.

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Remembering Najee Seabrooks – Two Years Later

Najee Seabrooks

Last month, March 3rd marked two years since the Paterson Healing Collective (PHC) lost Najee Seabrooks, who was killed by Paterson police during a mental health crisis.

Even though PHC is one of the most highly regarded programs of its kind in the country, Paterson police refused to allow their members to intervene for Najee on that fateful day when their skills and reputation meant everything!

Zellie Imani of Black Lives Matter Paterson summed it up painfully when he said, “All I need is to see some of y’all faces and hear some of y’all voices,” he pleaded on that fateful day. 

To mark the anniversary of Najee’s passing, the PHC held an in-house healing of reflection, including Najee’s family to reflect on what Najee meant to them and how Najee affected them.

They did it in their healing hub, named after Najee. His large smiling angelic image energized the room and comforted everyone in it.

His mother recounted how deeply personal Najee took the work, how he brought it home with him, telling her his stories about what they were all trying to do every day.

“Najee used to come every day with stories,” she reflected heartily. “I miss that now.”

As they took turns in sharing, they each captured Najee’s huge personality. His laughter. His courage. His sharing. His love…in singular and personal ways. 

Casey Melvin said it plainly, “Najee’s heart was not just gold; it was platinum.” To his team, he added and emphasized, “You guys pushed the machinery of government to make them look at what not to do and how to handle situations like that differently.”

Since its inception, PHC has helped over 330 victims of violence and has a less than 1% re-injury rate. Less than 1%! Since the loss of Najee, despite a challenging and at times hostile political and legal terrain, their work has grown, including their Healing Hub for Youth, the launch of their Leadership Academy, their neighborhood Summer Peace Challenge, and their Sam Summer Teen Academy. 

All reflecting the prevention dimensions of the work in addition to their hospital-based intervention work, and how their work has led to a 50% reduction rate of gun violence victims coming through the hospital. 

“His spirit made us work more with kids,” said Liza Chowdhury, their executive director, lifting Najee’s inspiration.

Dr. James Pruden, their medical director, waxed even more spiritually. “Najee brought joy, brought energy, and he embodied hope. This is why, although his earthly travels have ended, the light of his inspiration will travel in our hearts as long as we live.”

Equal Justice USA is a national partner with the Paterson Healing Collective and the NJ Violence Intervention and Prevention Coalition.

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What is Felony Murder?

Balance sign in court room

Felony murder laws are among the most extreme and unjust policies in the U.S. criminal legal system. These laws allow prosecutors to charge individuals with murder even if they did not kill anyone, did not intend to kill, and in some cases, were not even present when a death occurred. The result? Harsh, disproportionate sentences that fuel mass incarceration and disproportionately harm young people, women, and communities of color.

Under the felony murder rule, if someone dies during the commission of certain felonies—such as robbery, burglary, or arson—every participant in that felony can be charged with murder. This is true even if the death was accidental, even if the person accused had no weapon, and even if they had no idea a death might occur. 

Prosecutors do not have to prove intent to kill, which is typically required for a first-degree murder conviction. Instead, they only need to prove intent to commit the underlying felony. This makes felony murder one of the easiest convictions for a prosecutor to secure.

Oklahoma’s felony murder law goes even further. In this state, individuals can face life in prison, life without parole, or even the death penalty under the felony murder rule—without the state ever having to prove they killed anyone or intended to. This is what happened to Tremane Wood. He was sentenced to death under Oklahoma’s felony murder rule, which does not require the state to prove he took a life—only that there was a crime being committed when someone else lost theirs.

Oklahoma is not alone. In many states, the felony murder rule can result in the harshest sentences possible, including the death penalty. In states like Alabama, Arizona, Florida, Georgia, Missouri, Texas, and more, individuals can be sentenced to execution for a murder they neither committed nor intended. 

Felony murder laws are not only unjust—they are ineffective. Studies show they do not deter crime, nor do they reduce the likelihood that felonies will turn deadly. Instead, they widen the net of extreme sentencing, consuming taxpayer dollars that could be used for proven public safety strategies, such as violence prevention, education, and trauma healing programs.

These laws disregard the cognitive development of young people. Research has long confirmed that the brain does not fully develop until around 25, meaning youth and emerging adults have a diminished ability to assess risk and foresee long-term consequences. 

Yet, felony murder laws treat them as if they have the same level of awareness and decision-making capacity as an experienced adult. This was the case for Tremane, who was only 22 years old when he was charged under the felony murder rule following a botched robbery in Oklahoma City.

These laws disproportionately target marginalized communities, further entrenching racial disparities in the legal system. In Pennsylvania, for example, 80% of individuals imprisoned under felony murder were people of color, and 70% were Black. 

The felony murder rule is an outdated relic. Originating in England in 1716, it was abolished there in 1957 because it was deemed unjust. Today, the United States is the only country in the world still using this doctrine. Currently, 27 states permit executions for felony murder (American Civil Liberties Union, 2023). A few states—Ohio, Michigan, Kentucky, and Hawaii—have abolished it. 

To end mass incarceration, we must take bold steps to eliminate extreme sentencing laws like felony murder. True justice demands sentencing based on individual actions and intent—not outdated laws that punish people for the choices of others. It’s time to abolish the felony murder rule and replace it with policies that uphold fairness, equity, and the true principles of justice.

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Building Support Survivors Need

Beyond Harm staff from New Orleans

In New Orleans, where traditional responses to domestic and sexual violence often fall short, Beyond Harm is charting a different path. This small but powerful organization is expanding its programs to address violence and trauma. EJUSA will partner with Beyond Harm and accelerate their growth, providing funding and critical supports needed to help organizations like Beyond Harm thrive.

In 2022, after years working in traditional victim services, co-founders Eva Lessinger and Amanda Tonkovich recognized a critical gap in the system—the lack of real, structured support for those who cause harm, many of whom have experienced harm themselves—and launched Beyond Harm to fill it.  

“We felt like there was this giant missing piece,” Eva explains. “After working with survivors over and over, we wanted to put that knowledge towards an upstream solution.”

Their approach challenges the reliance on punitive systems, offering alternatives that prioritize accountability and transformation—values that drive every aspect of their work.

“Survivors want their partners to change, to get help, to be better co-parents,” Amanda says. “But we weren’t getting at that by only serving survivors. Others need to be involved.”

Beyond Harm is a small team with just three full-time staff and they plan to bring on a fourth team member to expand their impact. Their work centers on group interventions,  individual counseling and restorative processes for people who have committed domestic and sexual violence, creating paths to accountability while addressing both the trauma they’ve inflicted on others and their own trauma. Louisiana lacked a structured program like this, so they looked to national models.

“We see ourselves as a survivor service,” Eva says, “but also as part of building a new and better way outside of carceral systems.”

Their work intersects with criminal justice reform, offering pretrial intervention in partnership with the New Orleans District Attorney’s Office. Many survivors prefer a path where their partners complete the program and have their charges dropped.

“Most survivors don’t want their loved ones locked away,” Amanda says. “They want safety, accountability, and real change.”

In addition to their work with individuals, Beyond Harm is deeply involved in the community violence intervention (CVI) movement. They are committed to a vision of community safety that emphasizes prevention and healing over punishment. 

“It’s a catch-22,” Amanda acknowledges. “We don’t believe jail is the answer, but some people wouldn’t make it to our program without that initial arrest.”

Recognizing their impact, EJUSA awarded Beyond Harm funding to expand their trauma counseling and restorative programming.

“Right now, it’s just the two of us doing all the counseling,” Eva explains. “Many participants need deeper individual work.”

This new position will also introduce somatic healing practices, a component of trauma recovery. “A lot of folks we work with have never had access to body-based healing,” Amanda says. “It’s not a cure-all, but it helps mitigate trauma symptoms.”

Somatic work is especially effective for PTSD survivors because trauma is often stored in the body, manifesting as physical symptoms like chronic pain, tension, or emotional dysregulation. By incorporating movement, breathwork, and embodied healing techniques, this approach helps participants process and manage their trauma more effectively. As a result, the new staff member will be better equipped to support PTSD survivors in their healing journey.

With over half their participants likely qualifying for PTSD diagnoses, this expansion is critical. The new staff member will provide much-needed individual counseling, lead a women’s program, and develop culturally relevant interventions for LGBTQ individuals.

“This position helps us fill gaps and respond more holistically to our community,” Eva says. “It’s about building the support system that survivors have been asking for all along.”

For Eva and Amanda, Beyond Harm is about more than addressing violence—it’s about transformation.

“We hope to build a future where the criminal legal system isn’t necessary for people to want to change,” Eva says. And with every step forward, they are making that future a little more possible.

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A Clear Picture of Racism

African American Woman Holding a "Being Black Should Not Be A Death Sentence" Sign

A Legacy of Racially Disparate Executions

Oklahoma’s death penalty has always disproportionately targeted people of color. The earliest recorded execution in the state occurred in 1841, and of the 39 people executed in the 19th century, 79% were Native American men, while 15% were Black men. It wasn’t until 1899 that the state recorded the execution of a white person. This pattern of racial disparity has persisted into the modern era.

Since 1976, 41% of the 117 people executed in Oklahoma have been people of color, the majority of them Black—despite Black residents comprising only about 7% of the state’s population. The state’s own data reveals a staggering racial bias in sentencing: a person charged with murdering a white woman is 10 times more likely to receive a death sentence than if the victim is a minority male. 

From 1990 to 2012, just 3% of homicides in the state resulted in a death sentence, yet in 74% of those cases, the victim was white. These disparities reflect a long-standing truth—Oklahoma’s justice system, like much of the country, assigns more value to white lives than to Black and Native American lives. This pattern is evident in the stark contrast between executions for crimes involving white victims versus Black victims, where those convicted of killing white victims are far more likely to face the death penalty than those convicted of killing Black victims.

The Race-of-Victim Effect and Oklahoma’s Death Penalty Today

The racial disparities in Oklahoma’s death penalty reflect a longstanding history of racism in the state’s legal system. A study of Oklahoma’s execution data found that, in cases involving victims of a single race, 19 Black people were executed for the murder of white victims, while only two white people were executed for the murder of Black victims. These statistics highlight how racial bias in Oklahoma’s legal system aligns with patterns seen across the country, where people of color are disproportionately sentenced to death, especially when the victim is white.

Additionally, Oklahoma’s history as a site of forced Native American relocation has had a lasting impact on its death penalty system. The Trail of Tears led to a concentration of Native American populations in the region, and as a result, in the 19th century, most people executed were Native American. That legacy continues today—Oklahoma has sentenced more Native American people to death than any other state and is responsible for a third of all executions of Native Americans nationally.

Tremane Wood: A Case That Exemplifies This Broken System

The racial injustice embedded in Oklahoma’s death penalty isn’t just a relic of the past—it continues to destroy lives today. Tremane Wood’s case is a devastating example.

Tremane, a bi-racial Black and white man, was sentenced to death in Oklahoma County in 2004 for the murder of Ronnie Wipf, a white man from Montana. However, his older brother, Zjaiton “Jake” Wood, admitted to committing the murder and stated that Tremane killed no one. 

Unlike Tremane, Jake was represented by a competent legal team and was able to secure a life sentence. Tremane, on the other hand, was appointed a solo practitioner, John Albert, who was struggling with alcohol and substance use disorders while handling approximately 100 cases. At the time he represented Tremane, Albert was also defending two other people against the death penalty—both of whom later had their convictions overturned due to ineffective counsel. Tremane received no such relief.

Had Tremane’s lawyer properly investigated and presented mitigating evidence, the jury would have learned about the trauma that shaped his life—his struggles as a bi-racial child in a predominantly white community, the lingering effects of domestic violence on his mother, and his deep admiration for his older brother, Jake, who was a central figure in Tremane’s life. Tremane looked up to Jake, but his brother’s involvement in criminal activities exposed him to a world of violence and poor decisions that deeply affected Tremane’s own choices. Instead, Tremane was left defenseless against a system that disproportionately punishes people of color.

The racial bias in his case extended beyond his defense. The judge who presided over his trial and later denied his appeal, Judge Ray Elliott, has been overheard making horrific racist remarks, referring to Mexicans as “nothing but filthy animals” who “deserve to all be taken south of the border with a shotgun to their heads.” This is the judge who decided that Tremane Wood received a fair trial.

Moreover, only one Black juror served on Tremane’s jury, and she later revealed that she had been bullied into sentencing him to death.

A Call to Action

Tremane Wood’s case is a continuation of Oklahoma’s long history of racial injustice in capital punishment. The state has repeatedly shown that it is willing to execute people of color at a disproportionate rate while prioritizing the lives of white victims. These patterns are not accidental; they are deeply ingrained in the criminal legal system. 

Oklahoma’s history of racial violence, exemplified by the Tulsa Massacre of 1921, continues to haunt the state’s legal system, where Black residents have long faced systemic discrimination and violence. The legacy of that massacre, where Black lives were destroyed with impunity, lingers in the unequal application of justice today.

Oklahoma’s death penalty is a direct descendant of racial violence, from 19th-century executions of Native Americans to modern-day cases like Tremane’s, where inadequate defense, racist judges, and biased juries lead to unjust outcomes. Tremane’s case underscores why Oklahoma must abandon the death penalty entirely.

His case also highlights another deeply flawed aspect of Oklahoma’s legal system: the felony murder rule. Under this rule, a person can be sentenced to death even if they did not personally kill anyone, so long as the prosecution argues that the death was a foreseeable consequence of a felony. This rule disproportionately targets people of color and those with inadequate legal representation—like Tremane, who was sentenced to death while his brother, who admitted to the murder, received a life sentence.

We’ll be diving deeper into Oklahoma’s felony murder rule in an upcoming piece—stay tuned to learn how this outdated and unjust law continues to destroy lives, including Tremane Wood’s.

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Shifting the Narrative: Addressing Gun Violence as a Public Health Epidemic

48,000 people die each year from gun violence. Last June, U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy announced that gun violence is a public health crisis and he’s not alone. One of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s approaches to addressing this public health crisis is advancing collaboration across multiple sectors.

Collaboration through a public health perspective — focusing on the root causes of all types of violence — is the foundation of Equal Justice USA’s work building community-led public safety solutions.

To strengthen these efforts, EJUSA has added two new members to its board of trustees, Brenda Henry, PhD, and Faith Mitchell, PhD, both of whom bring decades of public health experience to the organization.

“Last year, gun violence took its rightful, official position among public health issues that demand research, systematic analysis, and scalable, far-reaching solutions,” said Jamila Hodge, CEO of EJUSA. “We have long held that such a perspective is vital if we’re going to truly make this country safer, and Brenda and Faith bring a depth of experience in the public health field that will strengthen EJUSA in measurable ways.”

Dr. Brenda Henry has worked across the public health sector, including at research centers, foundations, and in the government. From 2015 through 2019, she was chief operating officer for the Division of Child and Family Well-being at the New York City Administration for Children’s Services, which serves tens of thousands of children and families. She recently founded BLH Consulting, where she has supported the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, the David and Lucile Packard Foundation, and other clients to build strategies that advance equity.

“My entire public health career, I have worked to bring awareness of and address the social conditions that perpetuate inequities in health in the United States,” said Dr. Henry. “The work that EJUSA does is a natural extension of this work. I am excited to support the organization’s efforts to break cycles of trauma, centering healing and repair for individuals and communities.”

Dr. Faith Mitchell has been a mainstay in Washington DC’s public health space for three decades. She served as president and CEO of Grantmakers In Health from 2012-2019 after spending 12 years at the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine. Today she is an Institute Fellow in the LAB and Health Policy Division at the Urban Institute. She is also chair of the Jacob & Valeria Langeloth Foundation, which is a pioneer in fostering safe and healthy communities through public-safety solutions.

“As a medical anthropologist I’ve worked a lot with communities,” said Dr. Mitchell. “I’ve also seen that health is a part of everything. I was drawn to EJUSA because of its focus on community-led solutions and its commitment to finding solutions to violence rooted in healing and repair.”
For more information, please contact Venise Toussaint at veniset@ejusa.org.

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Who is Tremane Wood, Now?

Tremane Wood, the Oklahoma State penitentiary

Tremane Wood, currently on death row in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary with his execution scheduled for 2025, is a grandfather, a father, a partner, a mentor, a friend, and a man who believes in second chances — not just for himself and his family, but for everyone discarded by society. He is the kind of person who speaks life into those around him, even from behind the walls of death row. There have been moments where he wrapped his arms around his grandchildren, children, mother, and girlfriend. He felt something he never thought possible: hope. 

Every death penalty story is unique, but perhaps the most striking aspect of Tremane’s case is that Oklahoma plans to kill him in 2025 — even though he has never killed anyone.

Each year, the Death Penalty Information Center documents the personal histories of those executed. Between 70-100% of those executed suffer from a critical impairment: “serious mental illness; brain injury, developmental brain damage, or an IQ in the intellectually disabled range; and/or chronic serious childhood trauma, neglect, and/or abuse.”

For Tremane, it’s childhood trauma. 

Tremane’s parents, Linda Wood and Raymond Gross met in the 1970s in Guthrie, Oklahoma. Linda had moved there to escape abuse in Florida and to attend Job Corp. She found work at a fast food restaurant. She was just a 16-year-old student when she met Raymond, a 28-year-old police officer. Not long after they met, Linda and Raymond started a family. They had three sons, with nicknames that Tremane had for his siblings: Andre (nickname, dreno) and Zjaiton (also known as Jake, nickname “bro”).

All three siblings grew up witnessing domestic violence within the family. Raymond’s frequent rages left their mother battered — often with broken bones and busted lips. He once held Linda at gunpoint, threatening to kill her, leaving an imprint of horror on the entire family. 

By the time Tremane was eight, Linda had left Raymond, but the scars he left — on her body and her sons — remained. Despite struggling with the aftermath of trauma and a new post-traumatic disorder (PTSD) diagnosis, she fought to rebuild their lives, juggling three jobs while taking a college course.  

With their mother stretched thin, the boys had too much time on their hands and too many opportunities to get into trouble. And through it all, Tremane clung to his relationship with his brother Jake, who he looked up to. 

At the time, Jake struggled to find his place in the world, navigating his biracial identity in a predominantly white neighborhood. “Jake was a rebellious black sheep,” Tremane shares. As Jake wrestled with those dynamics, he introduced Tremane to guns at a young age. 

The brothers, still young, found themselves on a dangerous path. One time, Tremane, Jake, and two other women decided to rob a white man, Ronnie Wipf. The situation quickly spiraled out of control, ending in Mr. Wipf’s tragic death. 

Under the law, all four were charged with first-degree murder and treated as equally guilty despite their differing roles. Jake admitted to killing Mr. Wipf and received a life sentence, while the two women were given lesser sentences. But Tremane — a Black man who did not commit the murder — was sentenced to death. Reflecting on his experience at the trial, he said, “My life was on the line, and I was intimidated in court facing death row; it’s David and Goliath.” 

Despite the trauma of his youth and the injustice of his conviction, Tremane remains committed to his family today. Even behind the walls of death row, often sitting 100 feet away from the death chamber, he has taken the role of patriarch, pouring into the lives of his sons, nieces, and nephews to break the cycle of trauma, pain, and violence. “When I talk to my nieces, nephews, and family, I speak life to them. I tell them, ‘Do not take your life for granted.’” For Tremane, his past is only part of the story — one that does not fully define who he is today. 

Now 45, Tremane continues to approach life with an unbreakable positive mindset. “You find strength in the strangest places. I will talk to my family,” he says. His longtime partner, Leslie, describes him as “one of the most optimistic people I’ve ever met.” She explains that their relationship is a lifeline — they write letters, share dreams, and hold onto hope for a future that remains uncertain. 

Yet, even in optimism, Tremane carries the weight of the past. He often reflects on a difficult question: “How do I make up for how my bad choices at that time in my life affected so many families and lives? For what I put Arnie and the Wipfs and my family through? You can’t make up the time, but what I try to do is be positive in everyone’s life. If anyone needs me, I’m there for them. I give them words of wisdom even if I can’t be physically there.” 

Leslie sees his resilience firsthand. “Despite everything, he motivates me,” she says. “His spirit, his hope — it’s remarkable.”

Leslie’s admiration reflects the depth of Tremane’s evolution, particularly in the years since his brother Jake’s death — a loss that became a turning point. “I’d been attached to my brother for so long,” Tremane reflected. “When he passed away, I felt lonely, and I began to look at myself.”  

In the continued search for growth, Tremane forged connections with others on death row, including exoneree Paris Powell. “He was my big brother because my brother wasn’t here,” Tremane said. “He taught me to be a leader, not a follower.” 

Leslie shared that after Jake’s passing, Tremane began to see himself in a new life. “He talks about coming into his own person since his brother passed away,” she said. No longer living in Jake’s shadow, Tremane focused on stepping outside the trauma of his family’s past, pouring energy and love into the family he has built. 

As he worked to carve out his own identity, Tremane turned to books, devouring anything that would empower him — from political discourse to personal development. “He likes to be informed, and he loves conversations about politics and empowerment,” Leslie says. “It’s important to him to keep learning, to stay sharp.”

The drive for self-improvement extended into his bonds with others, especially younger men in prison. Many of them arrive disoriented and unsure of their future, but Tremane mentors them, offering advice and motivation. “Keep going,” he tells them. “You get up and put your foot forward, not six days a week, but seven days a week.”

Tremane’s self-driven motivation isn’t fueled by external validation but by his strong sense of integrity. “I feel privileged that people in the penitentiary trust me,” he said. This internal compass has earned him the trust of prison officials, who selected him to work as an assistant orderly and participate in pilot programs. It has also garnered the respect of those around him. “I find a lot of strength in helping people,” Tremane shared. 

Tremane’s story does more than illustrate personal growth — it exposes the flaws in a system that prioritizes punishment over healing. His experiences reveal the deep racial and socioeconomic inequities that mark the criminal legal system. 

Tremane’s journey raises difficult questions about justice and accountability. Leslie, who has stood by him through it all, reflects on his resilience with a mixture of awe and frustration. “He’s gone through so much, and yet, here he is — still fighting, still pushing forward,” she says. “But at what cost?”

Tremane’s life now, nearly two decades after receiving a death sentence, stands as a testament to the possibility of justice. Tremane’s family, friends, and loved ones describe him as a kind soul. And despite being placed in a system that seeks to respond to violence with more violence, his story suggests a different path — a path of healing, of accountability that focuses not on punishment but on growth and transformation.

What Tremane’s life reveals is a broader truth: that the death penalty system only extends the cycle of trauma and misses the chance to foster healing and genuine change. Tremane’s experience, like that of many others on death row, magnifies the racial and class inequities embedded in the criminal legal system. It also challenges the notion that justice can be found in retribution.

Leslie hopes that Tremane’s story will encourage others to rethink what accountability can look like. “He’s not just some person on death row,” she says. “He’s a father, a grandfather, a mentor. He’s human. And he’s changed.”

The question remains whether the system will allow that change to matter.

“I want to be a redemption story, especially when people see death row inmates as monsters. I want to redeem that narrative,” Tremane says. 

To learn more about Tremane’s case, please read this deeply reported story from Jessica Schulberg at HuffPost, which helped inform our story. Sign the petition here to stop his execution! 

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Words Shape the World

By: Mona Cadena, Advocacy and Campaigns Director; Jaylah Cosby, Research and Impact Manager

The words we use matter. When politicians and policymakers describe people as “heinous,” “vile criminals,” “evil,” “barbaric,” or “alien,” they aren’t just speaking in extremes. They’re laying the groundwork for policies that increase punishment, expand incarceration, and ultimately makes all of us less safe.

We’ve seen this before. The “superpredator” myth of the 1990s fueled mass incarceration. The first Trump administration’s “Zero-Tolerance” immigration policy separated thousands of children from their parents and created a wave of for-profit detention centers. Now, the latest executive orders signal a tumbling deeper into harmful and punitive policies under the guise of “public safety.” 

But let’s be clear: dehumanizing language only feeds violence, and its presence in official documents like executive orders is Shameful.

Punishment Over Everything: The Consequences of Dehumanization

When any government labels people as monsters rather than human beings, it becomes easier to justify excessive punishment, no matter the cost, in the name of justice. Here’s what that looks like in practice:

  • Ramping up the Death Penalty: Calling people “evil” primes all of us to accept state executions despite overwhelming evidence that the death penalty disproportionately targets Black and brown people and has led to at least 200 wrongful convictions in the U.S. since 1973.
  • Expanding Mass Incarceration: The idea that certain people are inherently dangerous fuels policies like mandatory minimums, three-strikes laws, solitary confinement, and life without parole—trapping thousands in prisons instead of addressing the root causes of harm.
  • Militarizing Law Enforcement: Tough-on-crime rhetoric leads to more police, more surveillance, and more violence in communities that have historically been over-policed and over-criminalized.

The Real Impact of Punitive Policies: More Violence, Less Justice

The paradox of punitive policies is that they don’t reduce violence; they create the conditions for it. Here’s how:

  • State Violence Fuels Community Violence: When the government normalizes excessive force—through executions, police brutality, or excessive sentences – it sends a message that violence is an acceptable response to harm.
  • Over-Policing and Harsh Sentences Destabilize Communities: When entire neighborhoods are targeted by aggressive policing and high incarceration rates, families are torn apart, economic opportunities shrink, and cycles of harm continue.
  • Punishment Ignores the Root Causes of Harm: Criminalization focuses on who to punish rather than why violence happens in the first place. Poverty, lack of mental health resources, unaddressed trauma—none of these are solved by locking up more people in cages.

What Now?

We can’t afford to let this moment pass without pushing back against dangerous rhetoric and failed policies. Instead of accepting dehumanizing narratives, we must fight for real safety solutions:

  • Invest in Community-Based Violence Prevention: Studies prove that programs that provide mental health care, crisis response, and de-escalation tactics reduce violence without increasing incarceration. 
  • Advance Restorative and Transformative Justice: Real accountability doesn’t come from extreme sentences—it comes from addressing harm, supporting survivors, and preventing future violence.
  • Expose the Harm of Dehumanizing Language: We must call out the narratives that justify excessive punishment and insist on solutions prioritizing dignity, justice, and true public safety.

A Closer Look at the Executive Orders

These dangerous narratives aren’t just rhetoric—they have real policy consequences. Three recent executive orders demonstrate how dehumanizing language fuels harsher punishment and state violence.

  • “Restoring the Death Penalty and Protecting Public Safety” pushes for expanded federal executions and challenges legal precedents that limit capital punishment.
  • The revocation of Executive Order 14006 reopens the door for private prisons to profit from mass incarceration.
  • The revocation of Executive Order 14074 eliminates federal police accountability measures, scaling back transparency and use-of-force reporting.

Each shift deepens systemic inequalities, prioritizes punishment over prevention, and ignores evidence-based strategies that actually keep people safe.

For a deeper dive into these executive orders and their impact, read our full policy brief.

The Bottom Line

Dehumanizing language isn’t just rhetoric—it’s a policy weapon. When the government frames people as less than human, it clears the path for harsher punishments, expanded state violence, and deeper racial injustice.

We can’t let that happen. We have the power to push back, change the narrative, and demand real safety for our communities.

Please read our policy brief, share this message, and take action with us.

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Continuing the Fight

Historic photo, marching, civil rights movement

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a small but firm debate with my husband about our daughter’s antibiotics. Doctors prescribed a 10-day course, and as she started feeling better, the question arose: Do we really need to finish the full treatment?

Absolutely. We had to. Because if you stop treatment too soon, the infection doesn’t just return—it comes back stronger, more resistant, and harder to fight.

And that made me think about where we are today.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) is being erased—scrubbed from policies, from institutions, from funding. First, they told us critical race theory was the problem in our schools, even though most opponents could not define the term. That wasn’t enough. Then they turned to social-emotional learning, demonizing programs that help children—especially disabled children—navigate the world. And now, it’s DEI. What’s next? 

This is happening because we have never fully addressed the roots of racism in this country. Like an unfinished course of antibiotics, we stop the hard work too soon, and the disease mutates, growing more resistant, more dangerous. During the Civil Rights Movement we had historic policy wins; but because we never reckoned with the heart condition that perpetuated slavery, many of those wins have been temporary. We applied bandages when we needed heart surgery. And now, we are seeing the consequences.

Black History Month was founded by Carter G. Woodson as a way to uplift stories that have been erased. But in a world where Black history itself is under attack, we must ask: Are we using this month as a true act of resistance, or has it become another bandage? A symbolic gesture that allows those in power to say, See? We still celebrate Black history, while stripping away the very policies that protect Black futures?

The spirit of Black History Month must be resistance—not just celebration but action. We resist by telling the full truth, by refusing to let our stories be erased, by continuing the work even when it is not popular. Because resistance isn’t just for the moments when corporations are posting Black Lives Matter on their websites. It’s for the moments when it feels like we are standing alone, when the tide has turned against us, when speaking out comes with a cost.

This month, I am committing to learning more about the stories of resistance that history has tried to bury—stories like that of Fannie Lou Hamer, whose courage in the face of brutal oppression continues to inspire. And I invite you to do the same.

Because if we have learned anything, it’s this: We cannot stop now. We must finish the course. 

Toward justice.

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Reentry Summit

Sam Heath and Marteiz at Reentry Summit

In Charlottesville, a growing movement is working to address the challenges of reentry for formerly incarcerated individuals, ensuring they have the support they need to reintegrate into the community. At the heart of this effort is the Charlottesville Area Justice Coalition, a network of justice-oriented groups that came together to foster collaboration and amplify their impact.

Sam Heath, EJUSA’s Evangelical Network Manager, helps facilitate the coalition, and describes its origins: “I kept having conversations with people in the justice world in town who kept saying, ‘I wish there was a space where justice groups could overlap and talk, or there was one place to go, and there’s not.’” In response, Heath and others created a non-member-based coalition that meets regularly to share updates, host speakers, and discuss pressing issues such as jail renovations, violence interruption programs, and restorative justice efforts.

By November 2024, Heath and his colleague Martize Tolbert from One Stop Cville proposed launching working groups based on the six key recommendations. The Albemarle-Charlottesville Reentry Council agreed to take on three: housing, employment, and access to reentry services. These working groups will officially launch this month (February 2025). 

Through these conversations, a pressing issue became clear: the difficulty of connecting formerly incarcerated individuals with necessary reentry services. While resources like the Charlottesville Street Sheet—a directory of reentry services—exist, Heath points out the inherent challenges: “It assumes someone obviously can read, speak English, has a cell phone, has transportation… there’s 17 barriers to access what that sheet points to.” The need for a more accessible, coordinated effort became apparent.

Enter the Reentry Summit, an initiative designed to bring together all the stakeholders working in reentry. The idea, Heath explains, was simple: “I think people can figure out something.” With support from community leaders, the first summit was launched in April at Vault Virginia, a repurposed bank-turned-event space. Around 100 participants gathered to discuss the current state of reentry services and generate ideas for improvement.

The results were significant. Data collectors documented participants’ insights, producing 35 pages of ideas and recommendations. Recognizing the need for continued collaboration, Heath and his team organized a second summit just a month later. “The first summit was about dreaming. The second summit was about doing,” Heath explains. Attendees reconvened to analyze the data from the first gathering and identify six key areas of focus: housing, employment, faith-based partnerships, funding, access to peer navigators, and reentry services that are coordinated, comprehensive, and connected.

Momentum continued to build. “We presented the reentry findings in July, and everybody thought it was incredible and demanded, what are the next steps?” Heath recalls. 

In December 2024, a third summit was held to refine these initiatives. A particular focus was placed on data, with newly compiled statistics shedding light on local incarceration trends, racial disparities, and sentencing patterns. Thanks to the UVA Equity Center, who helped sort through all the data from the second summit, the team was able to gain deeper insights.

“One of the coolest things at the summit was the data presentation,” Heath notes. “We didn’t have this before, which is so amazing.” A criminal justice planner provided three detailed reports, offering unprecedented insight into the state of incarceration in Charlottesville and the surrounding counties. Summit attendees were eager to dive into the findings, which Heath and his team made publicly accessible the following day.

Beyond the summits, the work continues. By law, each Virginia county must have a reentry council, and Charlottesville’s Albemarle-Charlottesville Reentry Council plays a crucial role in sustaining these efforts. Heath, who has attended council meetings for a year, sees it as a vital component of long-term systemic change.

The faith-based working group, which Heath leads, is developing resources to help religious communities become stronger partners in reentry efforts. “That group is likely going to produce two things: a one-pager on how faith spaces can be hospitable for those who are formerly incarcerated, and a training led by someone with lived experience to guide churches in reentry partnership,” Heath explains.

Through grassroots organizing, coalition-building, and a commitment to community-driven solutions, Charlottesville’s reentry movement is paving the way for a more just and inclusive society. As the work evolves, the lessons from the summits—collaboration, accessibility, and sustained engagement—offer a model for other communities striving to support individuals on their journey home.

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