School resource officers (SROs) in Texas referred tens of thousands of elementary and middle schoolers for prosecution for relatively minor misconduct over the last decade, a news investigation found.
An analysis by The New York Times and the San Antonio Express-News reported that, as the number of SROs in Texas grew, children in Texas ages 10 to 13 were referred to prosecution for misbehaving in school more than 47,000 times since 2014. A referral doesn't necessarily result in charges being filed, but each one represents a minor being taken into police custody and put in contact with the criminal justice system, which can have long-lasting educational, emotional, and financial impacts for students and their families.
"Most of the students were accused of minor offenses, like making threats, using cannabis vapes or lashing out at classmates or teachers," the papers reported. "Few caused serious physical harm."
Among the examples cited by the Times and Express-News were an 11-year-old who bumped into a school counselor, a 10-year-old who said he saw someone on campus with a weapon, and a 10-year-old who kicked an assistant principal after his cellphone was taken away.
In one case, a 12-year-old girl who refused to go to the principal's office was handcuffed, arrested, and driven to the school police headquarters. "When she would not put her hand on a fingerprint machine, officers twisted her opposite arm behind her back until she screamed and complied, according to body camera footage," the outlets reported.
The analysis found that referrals of children 10 to 13 increased by a greater percentage than referrals of older students. (Children under 10 cannot be prosecuted under Texas law; many other states don't set a minimum age for delinquency.)
The two outlets published another joint investigation in May on how SROs in Texas schools have used heavy-handed tactics, including Tasers and pepper spray, against students over seemingly minor misconduct.
The findings mirror other recent studies. A report published in July by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) of Iowa found that, while SROs were placed in Iowa schools to keep students safe from violence, the threat they most commonly dealt with was illicit vaping.
The number of police in schools nationally dramatically increased in recent years, growing by 23 percent at high schools, middle schools, and elementary schools between 2018 and 2021, largely under the justification of stopping mass shootings and handling violent situations.
Organizations like the National Association of School Resource Officers (NASRO) say that carefully selected, well-trained officers act as a filter and decrease arrests by building strong relationships within the school with staff and students.
Civil liberties groups and disability advocates have long argued that increases in school police and zero-tolerance policies for petty disturbances have fueled the "school-to-prison" pipeline and led to disproportionate enforcement against minorities and students with disabilities. Those groups have been aided by viral news stories of policearresting and assaulting school children.
Following the police killing of George Floyd in 2020 and national calls for police reform, several major school districts across the country ended their SRO programs.
However, several states that experienced horrific school shootings, like Florida and Texas, moved in the opposite direction, passing laws that required police officers or armed guardians in public schools.
A 2020 Reason investigation described how Florida schools had become a high-stakes experiment in policing after Florida more than doubled the number of SROs across the state following the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in 2018. A study published in 2020found that after the increase, the number of Florida school arrests—which had been declining for years—suddenly started to rise. There was also a sharp increase in the use of physical restraint against students.
A 2021 working paper by the Annenberg Institute at Brown University, which billed itself as the broadest and most rigorous examination at the school level of how SROs impact student outcomes, found that while SROs "do effectively reduce some forms of violence in schools," they did not prevent school shootings or gun-related incidents.
Another study by researchers at the University of Maryland and the firm Westat, who studied several dozen middle and high schools in California, found that increasing the number of SROs led to both immediate and persistent increases in the number of drug and weapon offenses and the number of suspensions and expulsions of students.
On a Tuesday morning in February 2025, federal agents descended upon Ayala's Mini Market, a convenience store in Glendale, Arizona, that offered check cashing, money transfer, shipping, and cellphone repair services along with standard items such as groceries, snacks, sodas, and cigarettes. The agents, who worked for the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) and the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), seized three computers, five cellphones, and business records, plus about $460,000 in cash and checks. They did not say why.
Twenty months later, the store's owner, Mario Ayala, still has not received a definitive answer to that question. Nor has the government told him what it plans to do with his property or how he can try to get it back. That Kafkaesque situation is unconstitutional, Ayala's lawyers at the Institute for Justice argue in a motion and memorandum they filed on Tuesday in the U.S. District Court for the District of Arizona. The motion seeks the return of the property seized from Ayala's business, saying there is no legitimate reason for the government to keep it.
"The government can't take your stuff, disappear, and then never explain itself," says Institute for Justice attorney Betsy Sanz. "For over a year and a half, the government has been holding Mario's money and property. This prolonged seizure violates the Fourth Amendment and federal law. The government cannot hold onto your property indefinitely without explanation so it can eventually take it permanently using civil forfeiture."
The raid on Ayala's store happened while he was visiting his ailing father in Mexico, who died a couple of months later. After Ayala's wife and son called to tell him what had happened, he rushed back to Arizona, where he tried to figure out why his business had been targeted by the IRS and the DHS. That was harder than you might think.
Ayala "has heard nothing from the government since they raided his business and seized his property," Sanz and her colleagues note in their memorandum. When the agents left, they told Ayala's son that "the business would receive a letter within thirty days," the memorandum says, but "no letter came," and the government "has not told Mario why it took his property or why it refuses to return it."
The agents left a one-page inventory of the property they took, including the computers, cellphones (two of which belonged to Ayala's customers), documents, and currency, although it did not specify the amount of money. They also left the first page of a warrant signed by a federal magistrate judge, which contained no information about the crime they were investigating or the property they were authorized to seize. It referred to attachments that might have clarified those points, but the attachments were missing.
Ayala still has not seen those attachments. But on the same day the agents raided his store, they also searched 18 other businesses in the Phoenix area, all of which offered money services. Judging from the warrants served on three of those other businesses, which were signed by the same magistrate judge at the same time on the same day as the warrant for Ayala's Mini Market, the legal justification for the searches was suspected violations of 31 USC 5324, which makes it a felony to "structure" a financial transaction with the intent of "evading" federal reporting requirements.
The Bank Secrecy Act requires that financial institutions report cash transactions involving more than $10,000 to the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network (FinCEN). Although that mandate is aimed at money laundering, someone can be guilty of structuring even without evidence of any other crime if he deliberately tries to avoid triggering a FinCEN report by breaking up a transaction into amounts below the threshold. As far as Ayala can tell, the search of his store was based on nothing more than suspicion of structuring.
If so, Ayala's lawyers argue, the IRS agents who participated in the raid violated a 2019 federal law that bars the agency from seizing money when structuring is the only suspected crime. Congress passed that law in response to IRS forfeiture abuses highlighted by the Institute for Justice. "For the IRS to legally seize property based on a structuring offense, it must also have an added suspicion of some other criminal act," Sanz et al. note. "Yet the IRS seized Mario's property, apparently on the sole suspicion of a structuring violation."
That is not the only legal problem with the seizure. Assuming the government plans to seek forfeiture of Ayala's money based on an alleged connection to criminal activity, it missed a crucial deadline. The Civil Asset Forfeiture Reform Act (CAFRA) requires the federal government to notify property owners of attempted forfeitures within 60 days of the seizure. That deadline passed a year and a half ago, and Ayala still has received no such notice.
"This notice is crucial because it informs a property owner that the government intends to forfeit his property and triggers his ability to respond by filing a claim or administrative petition," Ayala's lawyers note. If the government fails to meet that requirement, CAFRA says, it "shall return the property."
The government can seek extensions of the CAFRA deadline "only if there is reason to believe that notice may have an adverse result," such as "endangering the life or physical safety of an individual," "flight from prosecution," "destruction of or tampering with evidence," "intimidation of potential witnesses," or "otherwise seriously jeopardizing an investigation or unduly delaying a trial." None of those conditions applies in this case, Sanz et al. say, and their client "is unaware of the government seeking any such extension here."
Another possible rationale for keeping Ayala's property is that the government needs it as evidence in a criminal investigation. But his lawyers argue that the seized items "have no independent evidentiary value."
The government "cannot claim that it is holding the cash as evidence of the suspected structuring offense, because the government—in the usual course—does not continue to hold the physical cash it seizes but rather promptly deposits it," the memorandum says. "To prove the suspected offense here, the government would present evidence documenting the amounts and frequency of transactions and evidence that the defendant intentionally evaded reporting requirements. No fact the government must prove to establish a structuring offense becomes more or less provable by the government's continued possession of Mario's money."
Although "the checks and business documents that the government seized from Mario may at first have had some evidentiary value," Sanz et al. say, it could have long since returned the originals and kept copies. As for the computers and cellphones, "the government has had ample time to extract and copy" any relevant information.
While the benefits of keeping Ayala's property seem highly dubious, the cost to him has been severe. The seizure of the checks and currency wreaked havoc with his business model, which relies on money received for transfers to cash checks, which in turn are scanned and used to pay the companies that handle the transfers.
"The search and seizure of Mario's property upended his business," the memorandum says. "He had to keep his business closed until March 1, 2025, to replace the seized computers and to figure out how they could keep the business open. He took $50,000 of his own money out of the bank so that he could keep cashing customers' checks. When that ran out, the business had to stop cashing checks for a long time, losing customers."
Ayala "also had to come up with $112,097.20 to pay the money transmitters to cover the balance that had accrued while he was away," his lawyers add. "Since all the cash and cashed-but-unscanned checks had been seized, Mario needed to pay this money to the transmitters on his own. Though he did ultimately pay back all the money transmitters over the following month, the consequences of the raid damaged Mario's business relationship with one of the money transmitters he had formerly worked with, InterMex. Today, the business can no longer offer InterMex as an option for money transfers."
Ayala's business "is now finally stable, but it is still not doing as well as it was before the raid," Sanz et al. say. "Mario has changed the way he runs his business because of the raid. He now scans every customer's cashed check to send it to the money transmitters as soon as it is cashed, rather than collecting [checks] and scanning them together as they previously did. He constantly worries that his business will be targeted again."
In the 20 months since the raid, the government has not filed a forfeiture action or even notified Ayala that it intends to do so. Nor has it filed any criminal charges related to the seizure, as far as Ayala knows. "The government has no lawful reason to retain
Mario's property," his lawyers say, "and this Court should exercise its equitable jurisdiction to order its return."
The motion relies on Federal Rule of Criminal Procedure 41(g), which says "a person aggrieved by an unlawful search and seizure of property or by the deprivation of property may move for the property's return." The U.S. Court of Appeals for the 9th Circuit, which includes Arizona, has adopted four criteria for granting such a motion: whether the government "displayed a callous disregard for the constitutional rights of the movant," whether "the movant has an individual interest in and need for the property he wants returned," whether "the movant would be irreparably injured by denying return of the property," and whether "the movant has an adequate remedy at law for the redress of his grievance."
All of those factors count in Ayala's favor, Sanz et al. argue. Ayala's interest in the property and the injury he is suffering are clear, as is the absence of any other remedy. As for the first criterion, "the government can neither forfeit Mario's property nor justify holding it as evidence, so its continued retention is unreasonable under the Fourth Amendment," the memorandum says. "And its nearly 20 months of silence, without any notice or any forum in which to contest the seizure, offends due process. At every turn, the government has 'callous[ly] disregarded' Mario's constitutional rights."
Ayala immigrated to the United States from Mexico in 1991 and struggled for years to make a go of his business, which was successful enough at the time of the raid that he planned to open a new location devoted to cellphone repair. That plan is now on hold because of the financial difficulties caused by the seizure.
"This business is my American Dream, and the government took years of my hard work without telling me what I did," Ayala says. "This raid hurt me and my family. I hope this lawsuit gets my money back and helps make sure this doesn't happen to anyone else."
A math teacher was arrested in Madrid and accused of having raped and sexually abused at least a dozen minors students over the past years, local outlets reported on Tuesday.
To observers, the horse-drawn carriages driven by coachmen in black top hats, ferrying passengers through Central Park and nearby Manhattan streets, can seem like relics from another time.
They soon may be.
The carriages have rolled through Central Park since the 1800s but more recently have been condemned by animal rights activists, who say the horses are subjected to inhumane and unsafe conditions.
On Thursday, New York City lawmakers are set to vote on a bill that would ban the carriages beginning June 1, 2028.
While attempts over the last decade to shut down the industry have failed, a majority of City Council members have co-sponsored the current bill, which has the support of Mayor Zohran Mamdani.
“The horse industry is coming to an end,” he said earlier this month.
Carriages have traversed Central Park since a 6-mile loop was designed for horse rides in the 1800s. By the mid-20th century, the city had limited horse-drawn carriage licenses to 68. Carriages were allowed to operate in the park and on city streets alongside cars.
“These carriages have been here before any of us have been here,” said Angelica Vega, a 45-year-old dog walker who has been coming to Central Park for 20 years, often three times a day. “It’s going to be sad to walk in the park and not see them.”
Fatal accident adds momentum to proposed ban
Support for the proposed ban grew after the death this summer of Romanch Mahajan, an 18-year-old tourist from India. Mahajan was thrown from a carriage and died on June 17 when the horse bolted after the driver stepped away to take a picture of Mahajan’s family.
Mahajan’s family filed a $50 million notice of claim against the city government and expressed support for the ban.
“We welcome the vote that will finally ban horse carriages in New York City so that no other human being or horse has to suffer the terrible tragedy that has befallen the Mahajan family,” Sagar Chadha of Liakas Law, counsel for the Mahajan family, said in a statement.
Hundreds of jobs threatened by carriage ban
The ban is expected to put hundreds of people out of work, including carriage owners, drivers and stable workers, and raises questions about the future of their horses.
Ahmet Bilici, 52, grew up on a farm in Turkey and became a carriage driver in 2003, shortly after immigrating to the US. He later became a business owner. A driver can earn a six-figure annual income giving rides that cost more than $70 for 20 minutes, and that income can double if the driver owns the business, he said.
“I have a license issued by the city. If I’m not doing anything wrong, how can you come and attack my business?” Bilici said as he waited for customers beside his carriage.
The bill requires the city to develop a transition plan by April and to consider a program to compensate carriage operators for their businesses and help with the disposition of their horses. Under the proposal, the horses could not be slaughtered.
Because carriage licenses, also known as medallions, are limited to 68 and are not sold on an open market, they are often passed down within families and can be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
The Transport Workers Union denounced the proposed bill.
“The horses in Central Park are iconic. We are as much a part of the city as the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building,” Christina Hansen, a carriage owner and union shop steward, told Reuters.
She spoke at the stables near the Hudson River in Manhattan, where most carriage horses spend their time when they are not working or taking mandatory five-week annual vacations at farms.
New Yorkers divided over historic tradition
California residents Dan Padilla and his wife booked a carriage ride during their first visit to New York, thinking it might be their last chance to take one.
“I’m concerned. It’s one of the things you think about when you think about Central Park,” Padilla said.
Lawyer Ron Shechtman, riding an electric bike through the park this week, said that while he regrets the loss of a longstanding tradition, he would not miss navigating around horse manure.
Although each horse is equipped with a bag defined in city regulations as a “manure-catching device,” Shechtman said the devices are hardly foolproof.
“They only work sometimes, I can tell you that,” Shechtman said.
“It makes me sad to see the horses, personally,” said Sage Stoyer, a 34-year-old hospitality worker who lives in Brooklyn. “I know a horse-drawn carriage was a normal thing, and now we have so many different alternatives that give us the same kind of experience without taking advantage of animals.”
Since 1871, a federal statute has authorized Americans to sue state and local officials for violating their constitutional rights. But since 1982, thanks to the court-invented doctrine of qualified immunity, such claims have been allowed only when they allege violations of "clearly established" law.
Because courts often require plaintiffs to meet that standard by citing precedents involving closely similar facts, qualified immunity can prove insurmountable even for victims of outrageous abuses. But as two recent cases illustrate, there are limits to this license for misconduct, meaning officials may still be held accountable when they flout longstanding constitutional principles, even when they do so in novel ways.
In 2022, Mario Rosales and Gracie Lasyone sued two Alexandria, Louisiana, police officers, Samuel Terrell and Jim Lewis, alleging that they had pulled Rosales over without legal justification. The cops ordered Rosales and Lasyone, his girlfriend, out of the car and detained them for 21 minutes, during which they grilled the couple about illegal drugs, frisked Rosales, and instructed him to empty his pockets.
Terrell and Lewis sought refuge in qualified immunity. But last month, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 5th Circuit ruled that Rosales and Lasyone had plausibly alleged several Fourth Amendment violations, including a stop based on a "fabricated traffic violation," an improperly prolonged detention, and unjustified searches.
In reaching that conclusion, the 5th Circuit relied mainly on a 1968 decision in which the Supreme Court said police may detain someone only if they reasonably suspect he is involved in criminal activity and may frisk him only if they reasonably suspect he is "armed and dangerous." Assuming the facts alleged in the lawsuit are true, the three-judge panel unanimously held, Terrell and Lewis had failed both of those tests.
When the officers stopped Rosales, the principles that the 5th Circuit applied had been the law of the land for more than half a century. Terrell and Lewis nevertheless argued that "any constitutional violation arising from the traffic stop was not clearly established," which gives you a sense of the chutzpah that qualified immunity invites.
Police commonly pull drivers over, ostensibly for traffic violations, in the hope of implicating them in drug crimes. A case that the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 8th Circuit considered this month involved a much more unusual scenario: a judge who locked two children in jail cells because he was frustrated by their resistance to a parental custody decision.
During a 2019 hearing in Taney County, Missouri, a divorced couple agreed that the mother would have primary custody of their two children, then 12 and 14. But contrary to that agreement, the children did not want to go home with their mother, which led to an argument in the courthouse lobby.
Judge Eric Eighmy intervened, telling the children they had to leave with their mother and repeatedly warning them that they could end up in foster care if they refused to do so. When that did not work, Eighmy jailed them until they became more cooperative.
"The time spent in the holding-cell area was between twenty and forty minutes," the 8th Circuit noted. And since Eighmy did not have probable cause to believe the children had committed any offense, "much less one that justified placing them in a holding cell," the court said, their confinement clearly violated the Fourth Amendment.
If so, Eighmy argued, he had no way of knowing that. The 8th Circuit panel unanimously disagreed: "As we put it over a decade and a half ago, long before the events in this case, 'it is clearly established that a warrantless arrest, unsupported by probable cause, violates the Fourth Amendment.'"
Notably, the 8th Circuit did not think the bizarre details of the case counted in Eighmy's favor. "We are not concerned about the lack of a prior case" with "fundamentally similar" facts, it said. "Indeed, given how clear the law is, it would have been surprising to find one."
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