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Don Scott becomes first Black Speaker in Virginia Legislature's 400 year history
Don Scott, Speaker the Virginia House of Delegates, has had a meteoric rise in the Statehouse. The Delegates unanimously voted him in as Speaker on Wednesday.
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Don Scott, Speaker the Virginia House of Delegates, has had a meteoric rise in the Statehouse. The Delegates unanimously voted him in as Speaker on Wednesday.
Shaban Athuman/VPM
The Virginia General Assembly unanimously elected Democrat Don Scott as house speaker on Wednesday, making him the first Black speaker in the Virginia House of Delegates’ history.
Del. Scott approached the podium to cheers and a standing ovation as he took the oath of office and began his term as the leader of the House.
“My first immediate emotion is just gratitude. I’m very grateful,” said Scott, tearing up as he thanked his 88 year old mother and his wife, watching from the gallery.
“The historic nature of this moment is not lost on me,” he told the House.
“I pray that it is a proud moment for all of us, as we nominate Delegate Don Scott as our next speaker of the house,” said Del. Luke E. Torian in his nomination speech.
“Over 400 years ago, people who looked like Delegate Scott gave their sweat blood and tears to build this Capitol,” Del. Torian elaborated. “And I would say that is probably only right and fitting and appropriate that 400 years later, a person of color, an African American, whose ancestors helped to build this capital now stands to help lead this House of Delegates.”
From prison to politics
Scott says the Navy ships docked in his district, like the USS Kearsarge (LHD-3), are a reminder of a call to public service that started with his time in the Navy as a young man.
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Scott says the Navy ships docked in his district, like the USS Kearsarge (LHD-3), are a reminder of a call to public service that started with his time in the Navy as a young man.
Shaban Athuman/VPM
Scott, a 58 year-old Navy veteran and lawyer representing the Southeastern Virginia city of Portsmouth, quickly distinguished himself in the Democratic Caucus in part thanks to his unconventional path to the statehouse.
As a law student, Scott was convicted on a drug-related charge in 1994 and spent nearly eight years incarcerated in federal prison. After his release, Scott built a successful career as a trial lawyer in Portsmouth, which put him in the public eye and drew attention to his past.
In 2018, while in the midst of defending a city councilman accused of forgery, a local reporter learned of Scott’s time in prison and contacted him for a story. Scott hadn’t tried to keep his conviction a secret, but now it was widely known, and on the front-page of the Sunday paper.
“When you have a conviction, which I had a felony conviction that’s now 30 years old, you never really feel comfortable,” Scott told NPR, from his office in Portsmouth. “You always feel like you have to be careful on how far you can go and you put limits on yourself.”
That changed for Scott when a friend reached out after reading the article.
“You’re free now,” Scott remembers the friend texting. “So whatever you want to do now, you can do it.”
And what Scott wanted to do was run for office.
Scott credits the women in his life, including his wife, Dr. Mellanda Y. Colson Scott, for restoring his self-confidence and ambition after prison.
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Scott credits the women in his life, including his wife, Dr. Mellanda Y. Colson Scott, for restoring his self-confidence and ambition after prison.
Shaban Athuman/VPM
A platform built on personal experience
Scott won his first race for the Virginia House in 2019. He ran on a platform of criminal justice reform, shaped by his time on both sides of the legal system. Scott says, those experiences gave him another edge on the campaign trail, too.
“I used to always say the worst thing that will happen to me will not be losing an election,” he muses.
Scott grew up in Texas; one of six children raised by a single mother who struggled to make ends meet. Scott remembers meals of mayonnaise sandwiches and long hours at the local library, which his mother leaned on for free childcare. The young Scott turned into a voracious reader, which he says contributed to him going to college.
After serving in the Navy as a surface warfare officer, Scott went to law school. It was there, in his last year, that a federal court convicted him of conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute crack cocaine. Scott says that he was only picking up money for a dealer he knew, and had no intention of selling the drugs himself. He was sentenced to 10 years, and graduated from law school before heading to prison.
Released nearly 8 years later, Scott took a job in Delaware as a case manager on a workforce program for people on public assistance, and worked his way up the career ladder. Now married and with a young daughter, Scott says the constant travel was hard on his family. So he tapped his law degree, passed the bar exam and took a job in a firm, where he is still a partner.
As minority leader, Scott was tasked with retaking the state legislature during the 2023 elections. His stump speeches focused on abortion access and combatting internal threats to democracy.
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As minority leader, Scott was tasked with retaking the state legislature during the 2023 elections. His stump speeches focused on abortion access and combatting internal threats to democracy.
Shaban Athuman/VPM
Headwinds turn to headway in the Virginia Capitol
Scott entered the General Assembly in 2020 and started introducing legislation on criminal justice reform. He introduced nearly a dozen bills to change the commonwealth’s parole, records expungement, and probation policies. But the freshman delegate quickly ran into a roadblock: his own Democratic party, which held the majority in the Virginia Statehouse at the time and killed Scott’s bills, nearly all upon their first committee hearing.
Then, things shifted.
Not long into Scott’s first term, the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis sparked protests in state capitals across the country. Suddenly, the issues Scott had tried to tackle were top of mind in Richmond.
Scott revived some of his old bills on earned sentence credits and limited probation, which passed this time.
Going toe-to-toe with Virginia’s conservatives
In legislative sessions, Scott’s confrontational style full of quips and asides on the floor contributed to his quick rise within the Democratic caucus.
Early in 2022, Scott took on Gov. Glenn Youngkin after the Republican set up a “tipline” for Virginians to anonymously report educators for teaching so-called “divisive concepts” like Critical Race Theory.
“What I’ve seen from his day one activities is not someone who is a man of faith, not a Christian, but someone who wants to divide the Commonwealth,” Scott proclaimed to the Virginia House of Delegates, amid boos and jeers from the Republican side of the aisle.
Virginia Gov. Glenn Youngkin came to see Scott in his office after the Delegate criticized the Gov.’s policies on critical race theory.
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Virginia Gov. Glenn Youngkin came to see Scott in his office after the Delegate criticized the Gov.’s policies on critical race theory.
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Scott took it in stride. “I know the truth hurts. I don’t want to make you cry, like saying ‘critical race theory,’ because I know it hurts your feelings.”
Scott says soon after that, Youngkin, who often speaks publicly about his faith, asked Scott to the governor’s mansion.
“I said, he ain’t the principal and I ain’t a student,” laughs Scott. “If you want to see me, come over here. And to his credit, he came, he came to see me.”
The exchange raised Scott’s profile again, and less than six months later, he was chosen as house minority leader. After serving just three legislative sessions, Scott was now responsible for taking back the chamber from Republicans in the 2023 election.
Building on Black history at the Virginia Statehouse
Virginia Democrats did win control of the legislature last fall, and chose Scott as their nominee for speaker.
Before he headed to Richmond for the first day of the new legislative session, Scott gathered supporters in his district for a sendoff party.
As Scott spoke to the crowd, he took a moment to appreciate his rise: from the child of a poor single mother, to leader of America’s first statehouse. He expressed gratitude to the Black legislators who served before him.
“We didn’t even see ourselves ever even raising our hand to run for speaker of the house, let alone achieve it,” he recounted them telling him after his nomination.
“So I’m so grateful that I get the opportunity standing on those giants,” Scott told the crowd. “And want y’all to, when you see me in the room, understand I carry all of y’all with me.”
Scott also took a moment to recognize the enslaved Virginians who built the state Capitol.
Don Scott thanks his supporters during a sendoff party in his home district, before heading to Richmond for the opening of the 2024 legislative session.
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Don Scott thanks his supporters during a sendoff party in his home district, before heading to Richmond for the opening of the 2024 legislative session.
Shaban Athuman/VPM
“Every time I walk into that Capitol y’all – and this is true, I promise you – I see ghosts,” he told the crowd.
“I see our ancestors who were in there, who were emptying people’s urine and emptying the spittoons, building the buildings, breaking their backs while people made decisions about whether they were human or not.”
That history continues with Scott’s ascension as the first Black speaker.
Jahd Khalil is a reporter for VPM News
Early on a Tuesday morning last month, the sky still black, a group of deputies from the Laramie County sheriff’s office set out to patrol two major interstates that cross their corner of southeast Wyoming. Over the course of five hours, they made 41 traffic stops, issued 12 citations, made two criminal arrests and — through a new partnership with Immigration and Customs Enforcement — detained seven immigrants.
One person was asleep in the backseat of a silver pickup truck stopped for a too-dim rear license plate light. Two passengers in a minivan that had been going 12 miles per hour over the limit were also taken into custody. Four others were detained after their pickup, too, was stopped for speeding.
All were booked into the county jail to await transfer to an ICE detention facility. The deputies working the immigration operation earned a combined $1,325 in overtime courtesy of the federal government.
The Trump administration has enlisted hundreds of state and local law enforcement agencies in its mass deportation campaign by deputizing their officers as immigration agents, extending ICE’s reach far beyond where the agency typically operates.
Living in the United States without authorization is a civil violation, not a criminal offense, and local police officers have no responsibility to enforce federal immigration law. But after completing a 40-hour virtual training, certified officers can inquire about the immigration status of people they encounter in the course of routine police work; call ICE if they suspect a person is undocumented; and, if given the go-ahead, take immigrants into custody.
Agencies that have signed agreements to participate in the federal 287(g) task force program.
Where state and local law enforcement work for ICE
Before President Trump returned to office, the program — named 287(g) for a section of federal immigration law — had largely consisted of agreements with local agencies to identify and process immigrants already held in jails. The Trump administration expanded the cooperation, and for the first time offered cash incentives to agencies to sign up and make arrests.
Participation has exploded, and de facto ICE officers are now on the ground in hundreds of cities and counties across 31 states. Several thousand officers have been credentialed — state troopers, sheriff’s deputies, police officers, constables — on top of the 12,000 new officers and agents that ICE hired last year. The rush to sign up and cash in has included some unusual agencies, too, like Louisiana’s State Fire Marshal and Florida’s Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.
Perhaps most significantly, the program has the potential to turn highways and roads into sites of immigration enforcement.
“ICE does not have that generalized patrol authority, so it’s really great for ICE that they can use state and local police in this way,” said Naureen Shah, the director of immigration policy at the American Civil Liberties Union, whose Wyoming office is suing Laramie County over its agreement with ICE.
287(g) partnerships by type of agreement. Agencies may sign more than one agreement with ICE.
Hundreds of law enforcement agencies have joined ICE’s task force
Brian Kozak, the Laramie County sheriff, said the program allows his office to be more efficient and move detainees through his jail more quickly.
“If someone is undocumented, it’s faster for our deputies to book them on an ICE hold and not even do the local charges. Then they don’t have to sit in my jail waiting for those local charges to be adjudicated,” he said, though he added that more serious felony offenses would still be charged.
‘A tremendous asset’
Even though 1,200 local task force partners have signed on, the program is still ramping up. Fewer than 300 participating agencies had both credentialed at least one officer and received a payment for immigration enforcement work as of March, according to a payout ledger obtained by Ken Klippenstein, an independent journalist.
Researchers estimate that the share of people detained through any type of 287(g) program rose to about 10 percent in January, up from about 3 percent a year before. The Department of Homeland Security declined to answer detailed questions about the program or share more recent arrest or payment figures.
“The 287(g) program can be a tremendous asset to you and to the country,” Markwayne Mullin, the Homeland Security secretary, said this week at the National Sheriffs’ Association conference. “If we had the participation of all the county sheriffs that are in this building right now, think how much faster those arrests would move up.”
Over the course of a week in April, Laramie County was among the top arresting agencies in the country, alongside larger state authorities like the Florida Highway Patrol and the Oklahoma Department of Public Safety, according to snapshots of internal ICE data obtained by The New York Times. Together, the top five local partners made 162 immigration arrests that week; over a week in May, the top agencies made around 300 arrests.
Those are modest figures, considering ICE recorded about 7,000 arrests each week nationwide in recent months. The larger goal may be the perception of an ever more widespread immigration enforcement apparatus.
“The arrest numbers sometimes don’t matter to them if the message and rhetoric is strong enough — that any kind of day-to-day activity for an immigrant could lead to deportation,” said Nayna Gupta, the policy director for the American Immigration Council, a legal advocacy group that supports immigrants.
Financial incentives
For the local partners, the program comes with an enticing offer: a one-time payment of $100,000 for new vehicles and $7,500 in equipment funds per certified task force officer. ICE says it will pay the salary and benefits for officers who do immigration work full time, and overtime for up to 25 percent of an officer’s salary.
Agreements are most common in states where Republican leaders back the president’s immigration agenda. Last year, Florida became the first state to require local agencies’ participation in the 287(g) program, followed by Texas this year. Elsewhere, participation is more scattered — and Democratic lawmakers seeking to reign in ICE have succeeded in banning the agreements altogether in 11 states, most recently in New York.
287(g) task force agreements by state.
Local partnerships with ICE are most common in the South
Laramie County now has 30 credentialed task force officers. Since October, they have made 412 immigration arrests and the sheriff’s office has received about $300,000 for its participation.
Larger statewide agencies stand to be paid millions. Then there are the hundreds of smaller agencies with only a few task force officers, like the police department in Colebrook, N.H., which has three.
“It’s a huge thing for a small department like us to get that stipend,” said Chief Paul Rella, who said his department has made two ICE arrests since January and has received around $100,000. “But even if there wasn’t a stipend, we would’ve done it anyway. To be able to have the authority to detain someone that may be here illegally, it all comes down to community safety.”
Immigrant rights groups and critics of the program say it has the opposite effect: As more police officers work for ICE, immigrants may be discouraged from reporting crimes or avoid contact with local law enforcement for fear of deportation.
“It’s a balancing act,” acknowledged Benjamin Cox, the police chief in Duncan, S.C., a town of about 5,000 with two task force officers. “I need the people in our town, no matter their immigration status, to feel comfortable calling me. That’s the most challenging part of 287(g).”
Opponents of the program also say that it can lead to racial profiling. In 2011 and 2012, the Justice Department found that participating agencies in Arizona and North Carolina had engaged in patterns of discriminatory policing, leading the Obama administration to discontinue the task force program.
Sheriff Kozak is familiar with those risks. He worked as a police officer for 20 years in Mesa, Ariz., when Sheriff Joe Arpaio set up random checkpoints and neighborhood sweeps that targeted Latinos, and he said he saw firsthand that the sheriff was “crossing the line.”
“Our policy requires lawful contact following a violation of state law,” he said. “We’re focused on traffic enforcement and traffic safety, and then a side thing is the immigration.”
A D.H.S. spokesperson said accusations that 287(g) agreements encourage racial profiling are false and that ICE’s local partners fairly enforce immigration law.
From commute to detention
By late morning, the Laramie County deputies were preparing to head back to the jail when they stopped the speeding minivan. Four workers with a drywall company headed to a job site were inside. The driver and front-seat passenger had valid identification but told the deputies that the other passengers did not.
“We don’t typically ask other passengers unless there’s a reason, but nothing says you can’t ask” for identification, Chance Walkama, a chief deputy, explained. “That’s how things happen all the time.” Passengers who have not broken a law may decline to speak with the police, but many immigrants are unaware of this right.
Mr. Walkama texted the passengers’ information to his contact at the local ICE field office in Cheyenne. The ICE agent wrote back that one of their names matched someone with a criminal history and the same date of birth. After a few more questions, Mr. Walkama handcuffed the man, Christian Rodriguez, and loaded him into the deputies’ car.
He is now being held at an ICE detention facility in Aurora, Colo. “I don’t understand. I wasn’t driving, I had my seatbelt on,” Mr. Rodriguez said by phone from detention. “It’s not fair.”
Mr. Rodriguez, 29, arrived with his parents from Mexico as a minor and was about two years into the years-long process of applying for a green card. He is married to a U.S. citizen and has six children and step-children who are all U.S. citizens. He has no criminal convictions, records show; charges stemming from a domestic dispute with his ex-wife in 2020 were dropped.
Asked whether Mr. Rodriguez’s arrest reflected the purpose of Laramie County’s partnership with ICE, another chief deputy, Aaron Veldheer, said, “It weighs on me” — that a person who was riding in a car on his way to work is now separated from his family.
“Not that I wish somebody got hurt or there was a crime committed, but, yeah, it’s collateral,” Mr. Veldheer said. “But it’s part of the job. We can’t look the other way, either.”
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Allison Robbert/AFP via Getty Images; Theo Wargo/Getty Images for Tony Awards Productions; JC Olivera/Getty Images for the National Wildlife Federation’s #SaveLACougars Campaign
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Allison Robbert/AFP via Getty Images; Theo Wargo/Getty Images for Tony Awards Productions; JC Olivera/Getty Images for the National Wildlife Federation’s #SaveLACougars Campaign
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