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A guard punched him on camera. It was still nearly impossible for him to sue
Michelle Mildenberg Lara for The Marshall Project
This much is undisputed: On Nov. 2, 2023, a guard and a prisoner at a federal penitentiary in California got into it over a straw sunhat that the officer had confiscated. The man — identified in court records by his initials, J.M. — walked out of the office, as Officer Sandra Munagay followed him. When he stopped and turned around, Munagay “cocked back … and punched me in my face,” he said in an interview. That is on camera. Munagay admitted to the assault and pleaded guilty this January to falsifying records about it.
But the more severe harm came after, J.M. said, in a hallway without security cameras. As Munagay kicked and hit him, she shouted to other officers that J.M. had attacked her. According to a lawsuit, at least three other guards then rushed in, forced him into a blind spot, and pinned him face-first to a wall. With J.M.’s hands cuffed, he says an officer then sexually assaulted him with an unknown object.
That night, J.M. was transferred to another prison, where a nurse noted bleeding and tenderness in his rectum, medical records show. That gave J.M. more proof than most people behind bars in his situation.
But guards still had near-total control over whether he could file a complaint, or someday sue over what happened to him. J.M. knew they could destroy his paperwork, claim it got lost, or simply deny him the forms he needed. And like he had experienced in other federal prisons, he says, they might punish him for even trying to speak out.
It’s the same dilemma presented to anyone who faces violence in federal prison: Try to file an administrative grievance and risk opening yourself up to retaliation — or stay quiet, endure the abuse, and forgo your chance to someday bring your case to court.
Under federal law, people in prison must go through the facility’s own grievance process before they can attempt to sue. That gives prison staff a “chokehold over access to the courts,” said Colin Prince, a civil rights attorney and former federal defender who is representing J.M. in his lawsuit.
“The guards functionally have power over whether a prisoner can sue them for their own misconduct,” he said. “The entire system is layer upon layer of bureaucratic insulation against accountability. It simply prevents prisoners from getting access to the courts.”
An attorney for Munagay said he and his client declined to comment. A spokesperson for the Bureau of Prisons, Randilee Giamusso, said she could not discuss individual cases or ongoing litigation.
An investigation by The Marshall Project and NPR found that less than 2% of grievances filed in federal prison in 2023 were granted. A majority were rejected for procedural errors or “administratively closed” for other reasons. The findings were based on a federal database, published by the Data Liberation Project, containing nearly 1 million federal prison grievance cases dating back to 2000.
But that data only includes instances where incarcerated people were able to file a complaint at all. An unknown number of cases, especially those involving physical and sexual violence, go unreported, as the same officers accused of abuse can silence those trying to seek help, according to court records, lawsuits, and interviews with attorneys, incarcerated people, advocates and former bureau officials. A recent report by the Government Accountability Office found that fear of retaliation was a major impediment to reducing and reporting sexual abuse in federal prisons.
Prison officials said bureau policy prohibits retaliation of any kind, and that they review and investigate allegations of abuse. In an email, Giamusso wrote that the remedy system is “a safeguard intended to foster resolution within the system, not a barrier to court access.” She noted that remedies related to sexual abuse can be submitted in other ways, such as “third-party reporting and [Prison Rape Elimination Act]-specific channels.”
But many prisoners disagree. “The grievance system is a joke,” said Jimmy Hodge, who was released from federal prison in early 2025. Hodge says he was abused in multiple federal penitentiaries, but was frequently blocked from filing complaints about it. “If you’re grieving over abuse, they’re going to harass you, they’re going to assault you, but you’re never going to get relief.”
Since the passage of the Prison Litigation Reform Act 30 years ago, which required incarcerated people to file grievances before attempting to sue, the rate of civil rights cases filed from prison has dropped significantly.
Lawmakers at the time were concerned about “frivolous” lawsuits from prisons overwhelming federal courts. Politicians pointed to one case where a person had allegedly sued over whether he received chunky or creamy peanut butter. (The case was actually about not getting a $2.50 refund for peanut butter returned to the commissary, which is the equivalent of hours of prison labor.)
“People talk a lot about prisoners filing frivolous lawsuits,” said professor Margo Schlanger of the University of Michigan Law School, who has studied prison litigation across the U.S. “But a huge number of prisoner cases are about really, really serious matters. They’re about abysmal medical care and awful conditions and failures to protect them from harm by staff or by other prisoners. They’re about sexual violations.”
Attempts to significantly reform the law have gone nowhere, Schlanger said. “Having a system that stands in the way and says, ‘You know what, because you filed that grievance after three days instead of after two, you are out of luck and out of court’ — that is a shocking betrayal of justice.”
People who are blocked from filing grievances can sometimes convince a court that the remedy system was unavailable and their lawsuit should proceed. But that is a high bar that may require documentation and the help of an attorney, which many people filing from prison don’t have.
As is, the law fails to account for all the ways prison staff can thwart someone’s attempts to follow the remedy process, attorneys say.
To submit a complaint, someone must obtain a form from their counselor or another prison employee and then return the completed form to staff. According to bureau rules, an incarcerated person must file on their own behalf, unless it is regarding sexual abuse — whether they are in the infirmary or solitary confinement or have a disability. They can receive assistance with their filing from “trained inmate aides,” someone on the outside or a staff member, Giamusso wrote.
For people in isolation, filing a complaint is even harder. “You can’t just walk over to a box on the wall that says grievances and put it in the slot,” said attorney John Boston, co-author of the “Prisoners’ Self-Help Litigation Manual.” “You’ve got to hand it to the correctional officer. And that right there is a prescription for mischief.”
Multiple people in federal prison said officers refused to provide the forms they needed. “I have had difficulty in obtaining the initial grievance form because the unit counselor who issues the forms was friends with the officer whom the complaint was about,” wrote Erick Hobbs, now incarcerated in federal prison in North Carolina. According to Giamusso, if someone can’t get a form, they can ask for help from any staffer, “proceed to the next step in the remedy process, or report concerns through alternative channels.”
Even if you can get a form, there’s no guarantee the paperwork will be filed. “I have had officers doing a ‘random shakedown’ of a cell, and remedy papers go missing,” wrote William Batton, from a federal prison in Massachusetts. Many said prisoners were often transferred to a new facility and lost their paperwork in the process. That halts a case, as any appeal requires copies of every previous response and filing.
People in federal prison have just 20 days after an incident to file a complaint. Those regarding sexual abuse are supposed to be exempt from deadlines, under the federal Prison Rape Elimination Act. There is no such exemption for physical violence.
“People who are the most hurt are often the least equipped to describe it and file a grievance promptly,” Schlanger said. “Requiring them to very speedily figure out exactly what they’re complaining about can be a very, very high hurdle.”
By the time J.M. was assaulted in California, he had served time in some of the country’s most notorious federal prisons. In 2020, he was held at Big Sandy penitentiary in Kentucky, where officers had an unofficial policy: If someone requested protective custody because they feared other prisoners, guards would beat the person asking for help. Then the guards worked together to cover up the attacks, according to court records. Six staff members at Big Sandy were convicted for their role in the abuse.
J.M. tried to report the abuse he received at Big Sandy penitentiary in 2020 to the Eastern District Court of Kentucky. The highlighting and redactions were done by The Marshall Project.
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When J.M. tried to report the abuse he said he suffered at the hands of Big Sandy staff, it only brought more mistreatment. “I have an 8th-grade education, I don’t understand law,” he wrote to a federal court in 2020. “I have been targeted, retaliated and abused for trying to exhaust my remedies. Big Sandy [staff] told me if I keep filing these remedies that I won’t ever leave.” In his letter, J.M. described being chained to a chair for 12 to 18 hours at a time with no “food water or bathroom.”
“Nobody should get chained to no bed for … hours for filing a piece of paper, no matter what,” J.M. said in a recent interview.
His plea to the court, like several others filed from Big Sandy at that time, went nowhere.
In one case reviewed by The Marshall Project, an incarcerated man reported being pepper-sprayed, choked, beaten with a baton and repeatedly called racial slurs by Kentucky officers who were later convicted. He tried multiple times to file grievances about the attacks but received no response before he was transferred to another prison, according to a legal complaint. When he sued in court, his case was thrown out: He hadn’t completed the final two levels of the bureau’s remedy process.
By 2021, J.M. was transferred from Big Sandy to Thomson penitentiary in Illinois, then one of the most violent federal prisons in the country. Bureau officials closed the high-security Special Management Unit there in 2023, after an investigation by The Marshall Project and NPR exposed a culture of abuse and multiple homicides.
In his legal complaint, J.M. said officers at Thomson also refused to provide him with grievance forms. In a survey of over 120 people who had been held at Thomson, conducted by legal advocacy group The Washington Lawyers’ Committee, many reported the same interference. “I’m gonna break your fucking hands since you like to write us up,” one man said he was told, after an officer confiscated his stamps and legal documents.
There are supposed to be other avenues for incarcerated people to report their abuse. But in a setting where no communication is truly anonymous, and the fear of retaliation is prevalent, even reaching out to the Inspector General felt risky, J.M. said. And it was hard to trust another government agency. “It’s like being in a house, and your mother or father is abusing you,” he explained. “And then you go and try and tell your mother or father, ‘Y’all abusing me.’ It didn’t make sense.”
In the U.S. Government Accountability Office report, published in May, investigators found that most surveyed prisoners said they could experience retaliation from staff if they reported sexual abuse. Less than half said they would feel comfortable reporting to the warden or a corrections officer. And many of the surveyed people didn’t know they had other options to report a sexual assault, like calling a rape crisis center or asking a family member to report on their behalf. The bureau agreed with the recommendations laid out in the report.
Fear of being targeted can hide systemic problems. At FCI Dublin in California, which closed in 2024 over widespread sexual abuse, officers frequently punished people for trying to file complaints, said Aron Laureano, who spent two years at the facility.
“They made it literally impossible for anybody to say anything,” she said. The first time Laureano filed a grievance, an officer came to her cell and quoted from her written complaint in front of everyone. “And that’s why they got away with it for so long.”
According to a federal lawsuit, officers retaliated against Laureano by placing her in solitary confinement, taking away her visits and phone calls, and confiscating her property. In one bizarre form of punishment, Laureano said, an officer made her walk around the prison yard, gather the eggs and baby hatchlings of geese who were roosting on the grounds, and stuff them in a trash bag.
Laureano came home from prison in 2024. “You went from one monster to another,” she said of navigating her time at Dublin. “You didn’t have anywhere to go. And I think that’s the worst feeling in the world. I told myself I would never put myself in a predicament like that again, ever.”
After the 2023 assault at Atwater penitentiary in California, J.M. was transferred to a different federal facility and locked in solitary confinement for making threats, insolence, and refusing to obey an order. In her official retelling of the incident, Officer Munagay had claimed that J.M. “walked toward me in an aggressive way” and that she “feared for [her] life.”
What happened with Munagay and the other officers followed J.M. to the new facility. “Everybody knew about the situation, it was funny to them,” he said of the guards there. “I had officers come and tell me, ‘Hey, drop the case, she’s got three kids.’” Staff also began threatening him, according to J.M.’s complaint. They told other prisoners he was a snitch, he said, and locked him in four-point restraints for hours, where each limb was chained to a concrete slab.
It wasn’t just the guards he was worried about. J.M. had seen employees turn prisoners against each other, he said, as payback for writing someone up. “If I file a remedy … my unit team is going to come … take everybody’s stuff, trash everybody’s cells, and say, ‘We’re doing this because [J.M.] complained,’” he said. “Now the other inmates are mad, ‘Oh, it’s your fault.’ Your life is in danger.”
Federal prison policy required J.M. to file his complaint at the institution level first, unless it was regarding a “sensitive” issue. Then he could mail a claim directly to the regional director. J.M. didn’t have enough postage, so he fashioned a fishing line out of plastic wrappers, and used it to trade food for stamps with other men on the tier.
His grievance was rejected. The bureau did not consider his issue “sensitive,” according to a federal database, and required him to file again at the prison level. When J.M. went to file an appeal, prison staff seized and destroyed his paperwork, his lawsuit says.
“He had been assaulted, isolated, trapped, and could not tell anyone who would listen,” his complaint states. “By mid-January 2024 … JM was expressing ‘suicidality’ to the mental-health department because he could not ‘participate’ in the ‘Administrative Remedy Process.’”
Nearly six months after his attack, prison staff dropped the disciplinary charges against J.M., as video footage showed Munagay had punched him. Federal prosecutors filed criminal charges against Munagay six months later. In June, she was sentenced to four months in prison. J.M.’s lawsuit is ongoing.
No charges have been filed regarding the sexual assault J.M. says he experienced. In 2024, there were 32 allegations of sexual abuse by staff reported at Atwater penitentiary.
J.M. has since been moved to another federal penitentiary out of state. His struggles with the grievance system continue. He’s trying to appeal a grievance he filed about not receiving his allotment of postage stamps, but he doesn’t have enough stamps to mail the paperwork.
“I’m resilient. I’m not going to give up just because other people failed,” he said about his commitment to keep trying to use the system. “I’m going to keep filing no matter how small or big the situation is, and hopefully something will change. These are the rules I gotta follow. This is the only way I got to fight.”
Utah wildfire response continues despite loss of helicopter crew, with containment standing at 24 percent.
Published On 9 Aug 2026
A pilot and one crew member have been confirmed dead after their firefighting helicopter crashed while battling a massive wildfire in central Utah.
The Sikorsky S-64 ‘Skycrane’, operated by Helicopter Transport Services under contract with the United States Forest Service, went down about 10am local time on Friday (16:00 GMT) near Richfield, in the Three Creeks Reservoir area southwest of the city, close to the southeastern edge of the Widemouth 2 fire.
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The National Interagency Fire Center (NIFC) confirmed the deaths on Saturday, more than 24 hours after the crash, saying the two crew members were “fatally injured” and extended its “condolences to the friends and family of the deceased”.
In a situation report, the NIFC said extreme fire conditions and steep terrain had kept rescue teams from reaching the wreckage. The bodies were recovered on Saturday, but the names of the deceased have not been released.
The NIFC has issued evacuations for residents in the area and imposed road closures.
Deputy incident commander Tyler Hecht said on Friday that crews took a “tactical pause” to regroup after the crash before resuming their firefighting work.
“It’s not going to change how we operate,” Hecht said. “We’re going to continue to fight fire and utilize aircraft to support our firefighters on the ground.”
Utah Governor Spencer Cox called wildland firefighting “among the most dangerous jobs in the world” and asked residents to keep the crew “in your prayers”.
The Utah Highway Patrol organised a procession Saturday evening to escort the remains of the “fallen heroes”.
The Widemouth 2 fire ignited from a lightning strike in Fishlake National Forest on July 27 and has since burned more than 111,000 acres (45,000 hectares), putting it on pace to become Utah’s largest wildfire this year.
Officials listed containment at 24 percent on Saturday, with extreme fire behaviour – including crowning and long-range spotting – still threatening nearby communities.
This is Utah’s second fatal wildfire incident this summer. Three firefighters died in June while battling the Knowles and Gore fires near the Colorado border. A fourth firefighter later died from injuries sustained in the incident.
Brittany Apgar (from left), Maggie Foxx and Mo’ne Davis, of the Los Angeles Queens, joke around in the dugout prior to the start of the Women’s Pro Baseball League’s inaugural game in Springfield, Ill., on Saturday, Aug. 1.
Jaclyn Licht for NPR
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SPRINGFIELD, Ill. — Three hours before game time, hundreds of fans swarmed the construction-lined, rain-soaked parking lot of Springfield’s Robin Roberts Stadium. Some lived down the road; most hailed from across the country, and some had come from as far as away as South Korea and Australia.
Carol and Mike Studer, the grandparents of the New York Heights’ first baseman London Studer, worried the weather would postpone London’s start against the Los Angeles Queens and they’d miss their flight the next morning. One hour later, security parted the gates.
“Am I the very first inside?” yelled a teenage girl holding a baseball mitt as she rushed through a balloon-adorned entrance to be greeted by a custom bobblehead of Queens outfielder Mo’ne Davis.
Staff quietly hurried to tape falling signage to the walls, troubleshoot the jumbotron and cook burgers and hot dogs as rain seeped through the grated ceilings of the exterior walkways. Fans, meanwhile, made a beeline for the merch booth; within hours, sales were capped at two items per fan to accommodate demand. Underneath translucent ponchos, fans donned hats, sweatshirts and T-shirts in support of the league’s four teams: the Queens, the Heights, the Boston Hunters and the San Francisco Firebells. Team loyalty was largely arbitrary, though; most said they were simply happy to support the athletes and to be present to witness the league’s inaugural game.
Players with the Boston Hunters and the San Francisco Firebells assist the grounds crew in rolling up the infield tarp prior to the start of the WPBL’s inaugural game on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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Sabrina Robinson, the Boston Hunters’ first baseman, fixes her hair in her hotel room before going out with her fellow players in the Women’s Pro Baseball League on Thursday, July 30.
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Robinson (center) fist bumps her teammates at the conclusion of a preseason scrimmage prior to the WPBL’s opening weekend on Thursday, July 30, in Springfield, Ill.
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The San Francisco Firebells get in some batting practice at the University of Illinois, Springfield’s training field before the WPBL’s inaugural weekend on Thursday, July 30.
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San Francisco Firebells coach Matt Williams (from left), second baseman Amanda Gianelloni, catcher Samantha Gutierrez and left fielder Skylar Kaplan in the dugout prior to their game on Sunday, Aug. 2.
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Fans from Delaware drove 1,700 miles to see Mo’ne Davis play in the WPBL’s inaugural game in Springfield, Ill., on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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WPBL teams’ captains and the league’s commissioner, Justine Siegal, pass a torch to youth representatives of Baseball For All, a gender equity initiative to support girls in baseball, in Springfield, Ill., on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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Enter the players. The Hunters and Firebells, who would play the following day, wandered the grounds in full uniform. Many were greeted with hugs by their parents and siblings, who’d traveled from across the U.S. and from 11 different countries to witness their daughters and sisters play professionally for the first time. Girls and boys blocked the players’ paths to ask for autographs, beaming at their parents as they showed off their newly signed T-shirts, mitts and baseballs.
The weekend marked the start of the Women’s Pro Baseball League’s inaugural season. Its four host cities — Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York — were chosen for their history of sports loyalty and market size, yet the opening season will run for six weeks in the geographically central location of Springfield, Ill.
A stray ball lands near Springfield’s corn fields during preseason practice on Thursday, July 30.
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Rebecca Buchanan, of Springfield, Ill., dons a custom eye patch at a WPBL game at Robin Roberts Stadium on Sunday, Aug. 2.
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New York Heights players and fans prior to the start of the WPBL’s inaugural game on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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A concessions stand worker at Springfield’s Robin Roberts Stadium awaits her first customers on WPBL’s opening day.
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Maybelle the Mascot, designed in honor of veteran baseball player Maybelle Blair, entertains the crowd between innings of the WPBL’s opening game on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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Kelsie Whitmore (right), a pitcher for the San Francisco Firebells and the league’s No. 1 draft pick, guides veteran baseball player Maybelle Blair, 99, off the field after the first pitch ceremony on the WPBL’s opening day.
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Maybelle Blair, a veteran of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, a professional women’s baseball league that was founded in 1943 and ran for 12 seasons, grips a baseball prior to throwing out the first pitch at the WPBL’s inaugural game in Springfield, Ill., on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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Fans behind home plate during opening day ceremonies on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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The WPBL is the fifth professional women’s baseball league in U.S. history, but Queens’ third baseman Ashton Lansdell says, “We hope it’s the fifth and the last.”
Many of those signed to the WPBL began playing as young as 4 years old, and for many, their baseball trajectories stalled as they came of age and were told they were not allowed to compete alongside boys. But many of the players said the hurdle only fueled their determination to pursue the sport through other avenues.
Baseball For All, a nonprofit founded by WPBL Commissioner Justine Siegal, has supported young women in finding opportunities for organized play in their communities, schools and universities. Many compete in annual competitions, including the Women’s Baseball World Cup, and have had stints in regional and seasonal men’s leagues. A select few, including Lansdell, Firebells pitcher Kelsie Whitmore and Heights catcher Denae Benites, have even found success in the viral Banana Ball league playing for teams like the Savannah Bananas.
Most players, though, are juggling university studies or moonlight as bartenders, firefighters and architects to support their athletic dreams.
While opportunities for women’s baseball have grown in recent years, this is the first time that these women will have a chance to compete and play together for an extended period of time. “I’ve been practicing so long on my own,” said Boston’s first baseman, Sabrina Robinson, during preseason training. “It’s so different finally playing with other [professionals] in the same place now.”
Sabrina Robinson, first basemen for the Boston Hunters, dances between innings to rile up the crowd during her team’s first game in the Women’s Pro Baseball League on Sunday, Aug. 2.
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A fan’s rain-soaked scorecard on the WPBL’s opening day.
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A young fan waves his shirt in the stands at Springfield’s Robin Roberts Stadium on the WPBL’s opening weekend.
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One of the LA Queens’ players signs autographs for fans in the crowd during the game between the San Francisco Firebells and the Boston Hunters on Sunday, Aug. 2.
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The first game of the Women’s Professional Baseball League, hosted at Springfield’s Robin Roberts Stadium. The 5,200-seat stadium sold out for opening day.
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A young fan dons a Rockford Peaches uniform — a nod to one of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League’s teams that inspired the 1992 film A League of Their Own — at opening day on Saturday, Aug. 1.
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As the rain subsided, the grounds crew scrambled to prepare the field. Players stepped in to help roll up the tarp covering the field as the sold-out crowd settled into damp seats.
Meanwhile, on the third base line, 3-year-old Lenore Wooten took in the view of the field. “She’ll never know this was never not a thing,” said her mother, Jess.
Jaclyn Licht is a freelance photographer based in Brooklyn, N.Y. Find more of her work on her website, JaclynLicht.com, or on Instagram, at @shwaclyn.
The remains of 56 people were found improperly stored and decomposing on Thursday at a Chicago funeral home run by a couple who previously operated a crematory that was similarly shut down because of mishandled remains, authorities said.
Illinois state officials, meanwhile, suspended the license of one of the funeral home’s directors, alleging bodies were being kept in an unrefrigerated area in “deplorable conditions”.
The discovery came months after neighborhood residents began noticing a “stench” emanating from the funeral home, which led some to complain to the city.
The Cook county medical examiner’s office said it was notified by state and local officials that bodies were being stored improperly at South Chicago Chapel, and investigators and forensic pathologists were dispatched Thursday. The remains were in various states of decomposition, officials said.
“Staff is assessing the conditions of the remains, searching for documentation regarding identification of the decedents as well as death certificates. This process could take several days to ensure proper disposition,” the medical examiner’s office said in a statement, adding that family notifications will be made following the identifications.
Police said on Friday that their preliminary statement on the case incorrectly said that fire department officials declared the scene a hazardous materials incident.
No arrests have been announced, but city police said detectives are investigating. Messages for the funeral home were left by phone and through its website on Friday.
Later Friday, a small number of residents and people seeking information about their deceased loved ones gathered in front of the brick-walled funeral home, which is on a South Chicago street lined with trees, homes and businesses.
Latasha Johnson, 55, said her mother’s funeral was held at South Chicago Chapel on Thursday before authorities arrived and she later heard of their gruesome discovery. She said authorities told her that her mother’s body would have to undergo an autopsy and she would have to identify the remains in a day or two.
“I’m discombobulated,” she said. “My heart is broken.”
Blaise Von Bruchhaeuser, who described herself as a community advocate for the neighborhood, said it was upsetting that complaints about a terrible odor had been made for months before the decomposing bodies were found.
State business records show that funeral director Johanna Morgan incorporated South Chicago Chapel in 2022 and her funeral director’s license was temporarily suspended on Wednesday.
The state department of financial and professional regulation said the license suspension was due to “a finding that respondent’s continued practice is a danger to the public safety, interest and welfare due to respondent allowing multiple decedents to be kept in an unrefrigerated area with deplorable conditions including rodent infestation, causing decomposition and maggot infestation of the bodies”.
The state business records also list Clark Morgan, who state officials say is Johanna Morgan’s husband, as the funeral home’s president. The department of financial and professional regulation said Clark Morgan’s funeral director license was revoked in 2024 for practicing with an expired license and “unprofessional conduct” that it did not specify.
Funeral home owners also ran crematory that was shut down by the state
State comptroller Susana Mendoza said Friday that Johanna and Clark Morgan previously ran a crematory in Chicago Heights, south of Chicago, which had its license revoked last year after authorities discovered improperly stored bodies and hundreds of cremated remains that had never been returned to their families.
“Horrified. Again,” Mendoza said in a statement. “The discovery of decomposing remains waiting to be laid to rest this week at a South Side funeral home is heartbreaking and an abomination. These are people – someone’s mother, father, sister, brother, child or friend, and they deserve better.”
Both Johanna and Clark Morgan are listed in Cook county court records as defendants in connection with lawsuits involving Heights Crematory in Chicago Heights, south of Chicago.
Messages were left on Friday at phone listings for the Clarks and an attorney listed in records as their business agent. Public records indicate the Clarks live in the Chicago suburb of Evergreen Park.
The case is the latest in a series of incidents involving mishandled remains over the past three years.
Last month, police arrested two men in Pueblo, Colorado, for allegedly mishandling at least two dozen decomposing bodies and other remains found behind a hidden door in a funeral home.
That followed the discovery of 18 bodies in various stages of decomposition at a funeral home in Georgia in 2024. In 2023, nearly 200 decomposing bodies were found in a building in Colorado, and another 31 decomposing bodies were discovered at an Indiana funeral home.
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