The morning after a still-unnamed Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent shot and killed 52-year-old Houston resident Lorenzo Salgado Araujo on Tuesday, July 7, investigators from the Harris County District Attorney’s Office were on the scene. They hadn’t received an invitation from the federal agency, which was slightly unusual, but this wasn’t an oversight. It was the beginning of weeks of stonewalling by federal officials.

For starters, when DA investigators were allowed on scene, it had already been cleared and all the key pieces of evidence—including Araujo’s body and van—and even the ICE agents involved had been whisked away. 

“We realized this isn’t like other federal scenes before,” Courtney Fischer, spokesperson for Democratic Harris County DA Sean Teare, told the Texas Observer. The office investigates all officer-involved shootings in the county “parallel” to other departments’ investigations, and Fischer said that policy applies no matter what agency was involved. 

But this jurisdiction didn’t look so clear-cut to the federal agencies. The Department of Homeland Security’s Office of Inspector General immediately took charge of investigating the shooting, while the FBI began looking into the allegation that Araujo had attempted to assault the ICE agent with his van. Residents and local leaders in Houston were quick to express distrust in the integrity of these federal probes, pushing the mayor’s office, city council, Houston Police Department, and DA’s office to conduct independent investigations of their own. The DA’s office quickly confirmed it was pursuing one—with the initially reluctant assistance of the city and HPD. 

But in the weeks after the fatal shooting in Houston’s predominantly Hispanic east side, local authorities have struggled to stake their claim on an investigation into a killing within the most populous Texas city’s limits. 

Houston (Shutterstock)

Teare said his office is investigating the potential that any number of crimes may have occurred, including murder, manslaughter, and tampering with evidence. If the office is able to build a case, Teare could present it to a Harris County grand jury, which would determine whether to charge the officer or officers involved. According to an article written by Bryna Godar, staff attorney with the University of Wisconsin Law School, states have a “mixed track record” when attempting to criminally prosecute federal agents for state crimes committed on the job, but there is precedent and there are some standards established by the U.S. Supreme Court.

A local DA can’t force a federal official to appear in court or share direct evidence. The office does have subpoena power (and Teare has reportedly issued dozens), but a former prosecutor told the Houston Chronicle these subpoenas are often ignored. 

Teare, who’s in his second year in office, admits it could be a long, grueling process to build such a case. He told reporters at a July 13 press conference the investigation could take “many, many months, potentially years” to complete. This is in large part because they lack access: A week after the shooting, the DA’s office was receiving updates from DHS at the same time as the general public—via social media. Teare hinted his office may go to court if the federal agencies don’t cooperate with the local investigation. 

The office was given some level of access in the second week of the investigation, but only after a federal warrant to search Araujo’s van was unsealed against protocol, making public investigators’ allegation that there were potentially drugs in the vehicle. Harris County DA investigators asked to be present for the execution of the warrant and to get access to the van afterward, which the FBI granted. Now, after the apparent attempted character smear already made headlines, the DA confirmed that tests on the suspected white powder proved they were not narcotics.

The issues began in the immediate aftermath of the shooting, though, when Houston leaders disagreed on whether they even had the authority to investigate. 

Public outrage from Houston to Washington D.C. to Mexico’s Palacio Nacional was swift, but it seemed Houston Mayor John Whitmire wanted to distance the city from possible conflict with ICE. He stressed early on that HPD was not involved in the incident, and he erroneously stated that the department had no authority to investigate the shooting by a federal agent. A spokesperson from Whitmire’s office told the Observer he had been “advised” that the city lacked jurisdiction, but that he supported an independent investigation “from day one.”

University of Houston professor Brandon Rottinghaus told the Observer this shooting is “the most inflammatory that [Whitmire] has dealt with as mayor and maybe one of the most dramatic we’ve seen in recent history,” but that the mayor’s initial hesitation was less likely political and more likely an attempt to respect jurisdictions and chains of authority. (In April, Whitmire and the Houston City Council did bend to pressure from Governor Greg Abbott, who threatened to withhold millions in public safety funding after the city passed an ordinance limiting cooperation with ICE.)

HPD Chief Noe Diaz agreed with Whitmire’s initial assessment. The DA’s office, which has its own investigators, was the first local agency to act, but even Teare publicly demurred in the days immediately after the shooting, saying the federal agencies were “exclusively handling the case.”

Experts spoke up to quash the jurisdiction question, saying that federal officials can unequivocally be charged with state crimes. This wouldn’t be the first time the DA’s office undertook an investigation following a shooting by a federal agent. The DA brought the case against Gavin Lappe, an FBI agent who mistakenly shot and killed hostage Ulises Valladares in 2018, to a grand jury, which ultimately declined to indict him.  

Fort Bend District Attorney Brian Middleton, president of the Texas District & County Attorneys Association, stressed that federal investigations aim to determine whether someone broke a federal law, while local investigations look into state law violations. 

“Two completely different systems of laws, agencies, and prosecutors,” Middleton wrote in response to the Observer’s questions. Fort Bend County has not dealt with a shooting involving a federal officer, Middleton said, but: “No law prohibits such an investigation, though notice of and cooperation from the federal agency would be critical.  Additionally, access to evidence and witnesses, or a lack thereof, could pose challenges.”

The Harris County DA’s office, with limited access to any crime-scene evidence, didn’t have much to go on: Immediately after the shooting, officials from DHS claimed Salgado Araujo had tried to use his car as a weapon when the agent fired in “self-defense.” This is a familiar refrain, but unlike in other cases, it wasn’t immediately disproven by cell phone or body camera footage. In fact, the officers weren’t wearing body cameras, and the only footage that has surfaced related to the incident comes from surrounding businesses, which caught snippets of the pursuit. DA investigators have been collecting photo, video, and eyewitness evidence from the public, but nothing revelatory has yet publicly come out.

“What is there for state or local investigators to investigate?” asked Julian Ramirez, Houston City Council member, in an interview with the Observer. 

Teare has been speaking with Hennepin County Attorney Mary Moriarty in Minnesota, who is handling investigations into ICE agents involved in the shooting deaths of Renee Good and Alex Pretti in Minneapolis earlier this year. She too faced a federal agency unwilling to share evidence, which her office received six months after the shootings and after suing for access. She reportedly helped the Harris County DA make a plan.

Fischer, the Harris County DA spokesperson, said it’s been challenging to explain to potential witnesses that their investigation is completely separate from the feds’. The DA’s office launched a portal where residents could submit photos or videos of the incident, and Fischer said officials are not sharing that evidence with the federal agencies. Still, people are “terrified to come forward,” she said. 

The Harris County DA’s office is assisting the other passengers who were present in the van when Araujo was shot get temporary visas to remain in the United States as witnesses to a crime. 

On July 15, the Texas Rangers, the statewide police force that investigates high-profile crimes, announced they would conduct their own independent investigation at the request of Whitmire and Diaz. They have reportedly been given access to the federal evidence. 

In response, Abbott said the Rangers are “well known not just in the state of Texas, but elsewhere for their independence in conducting investigations,” also saying that the Rangers would work “alongside federal officials.” 

Despite Teare stepping out on a limb, Texas DAs in general may be wary of getting out ahead of the governor in clashing with ICE. State leaders including Abbott have repeatedly attacked local prosecutors’ authority in recent years, including with a 2023 law that threatens DAs with removal if they opt not to pursue certain crimes. Abbott has also signaled that he’ll continue to challenge DAs in the upcoming legislative session: He wants to establish a statewide prosecutor’s office with the power to usurp local cases.

The post Houston Is Testing Whether Trump’s ICE Is Above Texas Law appeared first on The Texas Observer.

When Michelle Wright Rhame was asked to be a foster mother, she saw it as a divine calling. She had always wanted to be a mom, but she couldn’t have children of her own—a heartbreak that contributed to the demise of her marriage. 

She got her opportunity through Hope Rising, a Brenham-based child placement agency and Christian ministry that worked with young victims of sex trafficking. “My prayer request at that time was for the Lord to use me for a greater purpose,” Rhame recalled. “I immediately said, ‘I’m all in. What do I have to do?’”

Rhame began working with Hope Rising as a volunteer with the organization’s therapy horses. “Horses are magical healers,” Rhame likes to say. She was 8 when her family moved to the United States from Panama, and her own horse, Duchess, taught her confidence as she adjusted to a foreign world.

Rhame loved volunteering so much that she began showing up to two or three times a week. When Hope Rising expanded into foster care two years later, the nonprofit began recruiting and training people like her as foster parents and matching them with children in the state system who’d survived sex trafficking. Supported by state tax dollars and private donations, it also developed a specialty school, weekly equine-therapy sessions, and caregivers to help foster parents.

Rhame moved into a 1950s-era guesthouse at a ranch near Brenham—one of several properties the organization used. The owners had offered the space to the nonprofit. The home, at the end of a 3-mile driveway, was isolated, which made it feel safe for young women seeking refuge from exploitation.

As the children came and went, her new home felt like a summer camp, Rhame said. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto a large lake, where the children could fish, and open land with riding trails. Horses roamed acreage called “the Pasture of Dreams” by the girls.

“God didn’t give me babies, but he gave me teenage girls,” Rhame said. She recalled her early days there as “so, so sweet and so good.”

Which is not to say her role was easy. To make ends meet, Rhame worked as a server at a family-owned restaurant in nearby Round Top, where her foster daughters did homework. As the girls grew older, most of them worked there themselves. Whenever money got tight, they’d make pumpkin loaves and sell them to the organization’s supporters. Creating a sense of normalcy was important for Rhame. She wanted her girls to be able to buy trendy clothes—Air Jordans, Victoria’s Secret Pink, Adidas sweat suits. All of her girls had a “glow up,” she said. 

From 2018 to 2022, she helped raise 13 foster children and adopted her first foster daughter, Faith, in 2019. Faith had ended up at Hope Rising after her biological mom sold her to a Mexican cartel in exchange for drugs, Rhame said. Child protective services found her on the run.

“She was phenomenal. She would wake up and go to school, go to softball practice, and then go [wait tables with me],” Rhame said. And she “got straight As.” 

Hope Rising received about $2 million in state grants from 2018 to 2021 and even more from private donors. At its peak, the organization had a staff of 25 and oversaw eight foster homes. 

But the nonprofit proved to be an unsteady partner for Rhame. She still has faith of her own, but she’s begun to question whether faith-based nonprofits are the right answer for Texas foster children.

It was around the time COVID-19 hit that Rhame said she first experienced friction with Hope Rising’s management.

In June 2020, the organization’s founder, Sherri Clement, asked Faith to speak about her equine-therapy sessions at a fundraiser in exchange for $200 and a Chick-fil-A gift card. Rhame didn’t attend, but she was told later about its success: “Tears were falling and checks were flying,” Rhame said she was told. 

Afterward, Faith, then only 19, seemed troubled, and Rhame became angry when she learned her child had been pressed to rehash her trauma onstage. Faith also admitted that she consumed alcohol there, Rhame said: The teen implied that staff told her it would calm her nerves.

Rhame was furious—she felt the organization had exploited her daughter for the sake of fundraising. 

Like many stories that would later emerge about Hope Rising, the details of what happened depend on who is telling the story. Clement said a server didn’t question Faith’s age when she requested the fundraiser’s specialty drink, which had sherbet, club soda, and sparkling wine. When another staff member saw Faith with the drink, it was confiscated and she was accompanied home, Clement said. Clement later changed the organization’s policy to prohibit serving alcohol at events where minors were present. 

Rhame didn’t buy Clement’s excuses. She filed a police report. Shortly thereafter, according to Rhame, Clement retaliated by attempting, unsuccessfully, to end Rhame’s role with the organization. (Clement disputed that account, saying that there were problems with Rhame’s care.)

The incident was one in a cascading series of accusations that would end with Clement’s ouster, followed by the dissolution of Hope Rising in 2022. And Hope Rising’s fall is not unique. 

In 2017, Texas began outsourcing its child welfare system to third-party contractors, which the state regulates and only partially funds. While this initiative was designed to keep children closer to friends and families in their hometowns, critics say the approach has created a mixed bag of models and quality of care. 

Three nonprofit programs set up to assist trafficking victims in the Texas foster care system closed in 2022, all after failing to meet the state’s minimum standards, experiencing management issues, or losing funding. At least 50 child placement agencies have shuttered, according to an agency website used to help foster children track changes.

As Texas continues to overhaul its child welfare system, state officials are proposing ways to avoid failures like this one. One of the strategies has been to put more private contractors, rather than state agencies and officials, in charge of vetting and managing nonprofit providers in different regions—a transition that is ongoing.

Child welfare experts are hoping that additional reforms will improve oversight and vetting, even as privatization of Texas foster care expands.

“In some ways, I don’t think it can be worse,” said Tara Grigg Green, the executive director of the Foster Care Advocacy Center.

Clement was a marketing specialist at several firms before founding Hope Rising in 2012. She said she’d felt called by God to fight against sex trafficking—an evil scourge she’d witnessed growing up in Southern California. Friends of hers had been sucked into trafficking, and she saw its violence up close. But somehow, she had been spared.

“I felt like God was protecting me,” Clement said. “Men just don’t … I can’t explain it, but they don’t care about using women or children. I have never given up in my heart the fact that there are women out there that don’t have a voice.”

Clement founded Hope Rising in her home state. But after hearing that Houston is one of the nation’s trafficking hubs, she and her husband moved to Texas in 2014 and turned their organization into a ministry. 

Texas seems to suit Clement, whose cascading blond hair matches the mane of one of her horses. She lives in a house on a hill in Washington County. Dogs, donkeys, and horses roam in the pastures that surround it. Like Rhame, she believes wholeheartedly that the correct combination of faith and farm animals can help humans bounce back from the unthinkable. 

Hope Rising began with a simple mission of raising awareness of sex trafficking. Over time, Clement developed an ambitious plan to support young victims with a combination of residential foster care and equine therapy, a treatment that uses horses as a catalyst to work through anxiety, depression, and trauma.

While “sex trafficking” has become a buzzword and a political talking point, its actual definition varies. When dealing with adult victims, sex trafficking occurs when someone compels others by force or fraud to sell sex acts. But anyone who buys some form of sex from a minor is considered a trafficker, and every such minor is a victim. While this includes rare and horrific experiences of young people being prostituted against their will, it also describes people buying photos of underage girls online or employing them to dance at strip clubs. A 2016 study from the University of Texas estimated the state had about 79,000 underage victims.

In 2018, Clement’s organization became a fully licensed child placement agency—a type of foster care program that finds, vets, and trains foster families. Typically, children in the foster care system have been removed from their homes by the court, usually because of abuse or neglect.

The same year that Hope Rising received its license, Tim Webb, a local pastor in Brenham, joined its board of directors. Webb wears a suit jacket and jeans to church, where he’s an energetic preacher. In an interview, he said he joined Hope Rising because he believed in its cause. 

Three nonprofit programs set up to assist trafficking victims in the Texas foster care system closed in 2022.

Jennifer Hohman, a charismatic and feisty Houstonian, joined the board in 2018 to help with fundraising. A longtime energy corporation executive, she’d served on other boards and had a network of wealthy Texans passionate about anti-trafficking efforts.

Hohman’s history on nonprofit boards included a track record of cleaning house. Hohman also sat on the board of Elijah Rising, an established anti-trafficking organization that houses adult survivors. For nearly 10 years, Elijah Rising had been run by its founder, Cat French. After Hohman got involved, first as an activist and later as a board member, she challenged French’s leadership.

At one point, Hohman hired an attorney and rallied the board, French said, and “the next thing I know,” the board chair “came with some paperwork and had me terminated.” An interim director was installed.

Hohman played a similar role as a reformer on the board of another organization, YWCA Houston. Hohman would do it again at Hope Rising, using the same attorney and interim director.

She’s not shy about her track record. “I got three in my back pocket where I literally had to be a part of an ethical changeover,” Hohman said in an interview. She takes issue with “founder’s syndrome,” a phenomenon where founders retain a disproportionate amount of power and influence. 

“Nonprofits are not owned by an individual,” she said. “They are public organizations with public money going through them.” 

Clement said she first met Hohman at an event for a different advocacy organization, and their relationship began as friendly. 

That changed in 2019 after Hohman leveraged her connections to raise $100,000 to renovate a property that Hope Rising used for its services. Hohman was under the impression that the organization owned the property, which was listed as an asset on its 990 tax forms. When she found out that Clement and her husband were its owners, she felt they were using nonprofit funds to renovate their own house. 

Eventually, disagreements between Clement and board members would escalate into litigation over her ouster and the organization’s use of property.

Clement would later testify in Washington County District Court that the property’s ownership was no secret: Other board members knew she owned the house and the land. The Clements were essentially doing the organization a favor, she argued, by leasing their property to Hope Rising for $1 per year, since the nonprofit couldn’t afford to buy it. She said the renovations were legitimate improvements to a long-term leased space; she called the false categorization of ownership on the tax form an accounting error.

Hohman said she made other discoveries that put her on edge, including the fact that only a fraction of the children in Hope Rising’s care had been victims of sex trafficking. That alarmed her, given that the organization’s purpose was to “provide emergency and long-term wrap-around therapeutic care to the minor survivors of sex trafficking and exploitation,” according to its tax form.

As Hohman’s accusations mounted, Clement protested. In an interview, she said she believed that Hohman was out to discredit her. Clement said Hohman insisted on installing one of her Houston allies to collect enough board votes to oust Clement.

But as the pressure increased, Clement became “defensive, distant” and attacked others, accusing four people of stealing from the organization, according to a letter Webb wrote to other board members.

Webb was recovering from heart surgery when Clement pushed to change the bylaws, specifying that Clement could be removed as director for only three reasons: if she committed a felony, if a judge declared she had an unsound mind, or if a judge ruled that she committed fraud or abuse against the organization. (The changes were approved in Webb’s absence.)

In another allegation raised in court, Webb blamed Clement for going to a bar in 2019 with a 21-year-old trafficking victim who, according to court records, had just gotten out of rehab for a drinking problem. The girl apparently got so drunk that she took off her shirt in public. 

Clement offered another explanation. The girl had not been to rehab, she said in an email, but simply participated in a sobriety program as part of an internship.The night began with watching the World Series at Dave and Buster’s, Clement said, but it got out of hand when a staff member persuaded everyone to go to another bar.

In 2019, as clashes between Clement and the board were heating up, the organization reported more than $3 million in revenues. While fundraising, Clement told supporters that Hope Rising was providing young women a chance at a new beginning. Expansion plans were on the horizon. 

In July 2020, Clement tried to urge other board members to vote to remove Hohman. But by then, it was too late, Clement said in an email. “The other (Board of Directors) members had drunk” the Kool-Aid.

On August 21, 2020, Clement arrived at the Hope Rising headquarters, then inside an old church building in Brenham. The space, which the nonprofit didn’t own, housed its school and its offices. Clement was expecting a one-on-one meeting. She would later describe what took place as a “hostile takeover” and a “military-style coup.”

Clement waited in the empty boardroom. She was surprised when Webb arrived with “an army” of people: three board members and Tracey Conwell, an attorney Hohman had previously worked with to remove the leaders of other organizations. (Webb also brought two police officers, who entered after the meeting got heated.)

When Clement asked if this was actually a board meeting, Conwell responded, “No, this is you getting fired,” according to testimony Clement gave as part of a lawsuit she filed in August 2020. In the lawsuit, Clement challenged her ouster as illegal, and questioned other board actions. 

In the lawsuit, Clement also alleged that Hohman had proceeded to remove professional and personal files from her computer and Dropbox account. “I was just sitting in my office watching my whole life’s work just disappear,” Clement said in an interview.

Around her, she said, several employees were crying, confused and concerned for their jobs. 

But Webb said that Clement became “emotionally unhinged” and “hysterical” when she was given notice of her termination, according to an unsworn declaration included in the board’s response to the lawsuit. “She could have left peaceably and without incident, maintaining her dignity and respect,” he wrote. “Instead, she responded with an incredible storm of yelling.”

Clement destroyed files, Webb said in an interview. She locked herself in her old office and spent hours sabotaging the organization by changing passwords and shredding documents, according to Webb and allegations in court records. He said he ultimately had to turn off the building’s wifi and utilities to get her to leave.

Sherri Clement at her home in Brenham on June 15 (Mark Felix/Texas Observer)

All the while, Hope Rising was being dinged by state regulators. According to records obtained from the state Health and Human Services (HHS), Hope Rising was written up 60 times for failing to comply with state standards between January 2018 and May 2022.

The state files contain disturbing details: A caregiver, an employee hired to help foster parents, was cited for letting the kids “tire themselves” before intervening in a fight. One citation noted that “a caregiver provided and smoked marijuana with children in care and another caregiver provided children in care with alcohol.” Foster parents were cited for pulling a child’s hair, cussing and yelling at children, and threatening them with physical harm. A foster parent was also cited for keeping toilet paper outside the bathroom, meaning children had to request it every time they used the restroom. (Because no names are listed, it’s unclear how many citations involve the same caregivers or foster parents.)

After Clement’s removal, Webb said in an interview that he discovered 30 citations and $7,000 in fines that the board had previously been unaware of. Public records the Observer obtained from HHS, which may be incomplete, show only $400 in penalties—mostly for violations related to required background checks for caregivers. 

Outside of the legal battle, the drama played out in other ways. Webb sent a letter to Hope Rising’s donor base in December 2020, explaining that he’d become aware of the “improper, inappropriate, and noncompliant behaviors of Sherri Clement.” In 2021, he worked the conflict into a sermon, and from his pulpit, he called Clement “a bad character” who, by suing him, was “coming against me, against the board, against our church.”

In the small town of Brenham, Clement said, the pastor’s word holds significant weight. “I can’t even go to the grocery store without getting stink eye from somebody,” Clement said.

Clement made efforts to move on with her equine-therapy side business. Meanwhile Hope Rising’s therapy horses were still living on the property she rented to the organization. She claimed that the board had abandoned them and that if she stopped caring for them, they would die.

In contrast, the board secretary reported that Clement had locked them out of a leased property where the donated horses were kept, and accused her of being a horse thief, court records show. 

In June 2021, the Clements were awarded the contested land in a related eviction case, and a justice of the peace ordered Hope Rising to pay related court costs. The separate civil lawsuit ended in 2025 when a judge signed an order, approving a motion submitted by the Clements. In an email, Clement said she spent $100,000 on the case and ran out of resources.

Clement sees the situation as one where powerful and well-connected people banded against her. Her fatal mistake, she said, was letting Hohman on the board. “It was a successful, viable organization … and these people just wanted it,” Clement said in an interview. “They took it and ruined it.” 

After Clement was removed, Hope Rising was cited again for physically unsafe and unsanitary conditions in foster homes. One home was described as dirty and in “disrepair,” with unfastened cabinets that could fall on a child; an inspector noted that a frog hopped through a house during the state’s visit. One child in the nonprofit’s care “had their rights to be free from abuse violated,” according to HHS records. The organization was repeatedly dinged for failing to have a licensed, full-time child care administrator on staff. 

In July 2021, almost a year after Clement’s ouster, HHS put the organization on “Heightened Monitoring” for excessive citations. Audits increased, and so did corresponding paperwork, which made it difficult to operate, Webb and Hohman said. 

In May 2022, the new Hope Rising leadership relinquished the nonprofit’s operating permit. 

In 2026, Clement said she continues to help children as an equine specialist. “I am still providing mental health services to at-risk youth both boys and girls, including some that are human trafficking victims,” she said via email. “The fact that I am still doing this work in spite of the efforts to snuff me out by Hohman and Webb should demonstrate my character and motivation.”

In Rhame’s assessment, some problems were specific to the dysfunction at Hope Rising. Whenever Rhame would request a caregiver for help with the foster children, for example, some conflict would emerge. They were not “trustworthy or reliable,” she said. One was spread thin trying to support two foster homes that were a two-hour drive apart, she said.

Perhaps commingling traumatized teenagers wasn’t necessarily the best idea in the first place, she realized. Drama and conflict at the school Hope Rising provided were made worse by a teacher who did not appear to be trauma-informed and had a tendency to “push a lot of buttons,” Rhame said.

But she suspects those quality-control issues were directly related to the state’s overburdened foster care system, which provided too little oversight. The state’s latest overhaul, called Texas Child-Centered Care, will require more vetting. But the number of organizations offering placements for young victims of sex trafficking is slim, and some fear raising the bar could worsen the shortage of appropriate foster homes. 

“There is a deep desire to try to help them, and also a dearth of resources and qualified individuals,” said Green, of the Foster Care Advocacy Center. She fears the state will continue to take providers at their word when they claim to be equipped to provide care.

Monica Faulkner, the director of the Texas Institute for Child & Family Wellbeing, a research institute within the University of Texas’ Steve Hicks School of Social Work, said that since the state relies on nonprofit providers, state agencies need to provide adequate resources so management can focus more on quality of care and less on fundraising to cover payroll and overhead.

“I don’t think we necessarily set people up for success in terms of how to run a nonprofit effectively,” Faulkner said. “People assume that nonprofits are just like this kumbaya-type place, but the reality is that nonprofits are constantly competing with each other for donors, for state funds, for federal funds.”

Hohman said that the foster children being served by Hope Rising were shielded from internal conflict between the board and the founder. She claimed the children were not affected, even when the nonprofit closed, because they could remain with the same foster families and just be transferred to a different child placement agency.

But Rhame said she and her foster children were affected. Her two teenage foster children relied on wifi for homeschooling at the place where she’d been living as a foster parent for the nonprofit. Two weeks before the program was scheduled to close, that service was disconnected without notice.

(Illustration by Guillermo Ortego)

Ultimately, Rhame decided not to continue as a foster mother with another agency. She stays in touch with her adopted daughter Faith and, intermittently, with her former foster daughters.

When the organization shuttered, one foster daughter was rehomed to a family in San Antonio and ran away only one month later. Another, who was 19 at the time, stayed with Rhame on the ranch as she finished out her school year. 

Rhame still doesn’t completely understand what caused the unraveling of something that began like a dream come true. “It could have been ego. It could have been, as some people say, a demonic takeover, or it could have just been good old-fashioned greed.”

After more than five years on the ranch dedicated to helping her girls, Rhame moved to Cypress to start anew. She’d walked away from Hope Rising with “a lot of loss,” “a lot of heartbreak,” and “a much lower credit score,” she told the Observer. 

“But at the same time, I would do it all over again.” 

The post The Fall of Hope Rising appeared first on The Texas Observer.

The sun is low over Nuevo Laredo as David Patricio and three friends start unloading gravel and mountain bikes for their evening ride along the Rio Grande, but the weather is still in the 90s and the humidity stifling.

In the early 2000s, the City of Laredo began buying up land to create a series of parks along the river. Those parks are now threatened by President Donald Trump’s planned border wall. But as it turns out, the same Border Patrol that wants to wall off Laredo from the Rio Grande has provided access to the undeveloped river vega, or floodplain. The agency paid for a caliche road that runs for several miles along the river through Laredo, connecting pieces of public land.

Ironically, this man-made scar that environmentalists say is detrimental to the unique Rio Grande ecosystem has created a way for Laredoans like Patricio to access the city’s underappreciated natural beauty. 

I met him and his friends on a May evening in the shadow of the cylindrical tower now known as the Landmark Hotel. The river flows almost due south through the city before turning east a little less than a mile from the hotel to run under a railroad bridge and then in front of the Landmark. It continues on past a municipal park that sits in the vega below Laredo’s outlet mall and its historic downtown, under two of the city’s international bridges, then along more public land before gently curving back south. We set off west, all of us on bicycles, on a paved road running under the rail bridge, before turning onto the Border Patrol road, then north onto a city path that leads away from the Rio Grande, into a wide greenspace called the Riverbend Park Nature Preserve.

(Jason Buch)

The city has paved paths through the short mesquite trees crowded together here, and built observation decks over a cluster of ponds, though the trailhead and parking area were still under construction. Patricio said that during migration season, the ponds are teeming with waterfowl. 

“We’re gonna be riding around areas where most everybody thinks it’s unsafe,” Patricio tells me before we return to the Border Patrol road. “And you’re gonna see that there’s really nothing to be worried about. We’re just out here having a good time.”

Back on the caliche road we cycle north along the river, behind Laredo College’s historic Fort McIntosh campus. The last time I was here, hiking with a friend nearly 20 years ago, the floodplain was choked by invasive carrizo cane that towered over our heads. I remember green-uniformed federal agents popping out of the tall, brown stalks to check on us every time we triggered a sensor. Since then, the nonprofit Rio Grande International Study Center and Border Patrol have cleared out the cane, which is loathed by agents because it blocks their line of sight and by environmentalists because it chokes out native plants. Now, there’s a clear view from the Border Patrol road through the trees, still mostly mesquite but much larger and widely spaced.

Once we’re past the college campus, we’re often only a few yards from residential neighborhoods, but the strip of floodplain where we’re riding is home to wildlife. Along with birds—brilliantly colored Mexican green jays are common here, and my birding app recorded the calls of red-winged blackbirds, cactus wrens, lesser goldfinches, and two kinds of doves—the cyclists said they sometimes see large mammals. They’ve spotted deer, javelina, and even beavers.

“The beavers are so big here they look like javelina,” Patricio says.

(Jason Buch)

Every 50 yards or so we pass Border Patrol agents or National Guard troops who have unloaded coolers and folding chairs from their unmarked rental vehicles. The agents are often from the border or have lived in Laredo for some time and are fairly friendly, Patricio and his friends tell me; they tend to slow down and wave when passing cyclists. The Guard troops, meanwhile, who are on temporary deployment and have been fed propaganda about how dangerous the region is, tear up and down the caliche road. When we pause, about 3.5 miles from our starting point, a red-winged blackbird is perched on surveillance equipment mounted atop a Humvee.

“Not to sound too hippie or anything, but you’ve got all this nature—it’s real calm and peaceful,” Rene Gutierrez, one of Patricio’s friends, tells me.

“I grew up in the Texas sun,” Gutierrez adds, as we prepare to head back to the hustle and bustle of downtown Laredo and its two international bridges. “It was riding bikes, playing football, basketball, just running in the streets, and it just stuck with me. It’s a way to be active, and it’s a way to kind of stay young and healthy. And why not enjoy your community? This is for all of us.”

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Bobby Pulido descended a staircase bedecked in flowers to face the quinceañara in her shimmering blue ball gown. Her magnificent hoop skirt swayed as the Tejano star-turned-South Texas Democratic congressional candidate launched into a rendition of “Hermoso Cariño.” It was Pulido’s second quince of four that night, part of a marathon run of birthdays, weddings, and even baptisms that have become the cornerstone of his campaign trail strategy. He finished with his hit song “Desvelado,” led the birthday girl by the hand around the dance floor, and gifted her a pink “Make Quinceañaras Great Again” hat.

After 30 years of performing across the United States and Mexico, the two-time Latin Grammy winner officially announced in September 2025 his bid to run for the 15th Congressional District, a newly remodeled majority-Latino South Texas district that’s anchored in McAllen and stretches north all the way to New Braunfels outside San Antonio. Republican Congresswoman Monica De La Cruz flipped that then-open seat back in 2022 and has held onto it in 2024 despite it being one of Dems’ top targets in the state.

The conservative Blue Dog Democrats PAC poured nearly $1 million into Pulido’s primary race, betting that the strength of his name recognition, cultural influence, and deep roots throughout the Rio Grande Valley would help to win back the seat after a Trump-fueled wave among Hispanic voters in 2024. In March, he easily defeated the more progressive yet little-known Ada Cuellar, an emergency physician with a law degree who largely self-funded her bid.

His slogan, “Not team red. Not team blue. Team you,” anchors Pulido as the Democrats’ familiar, moderate champion to reclaim the 15th from De La Cruz. He’s determined to podcast, sing, and dance his way to Congress, brushing off every scandal that seeks to poison his good-vibes campaign.

Bobby Pulido twirls the birthday girl at a quinceañara in Weslaco, Texas, the first of multiple campaign stops that night. (Photo by Eden Shamy)

De La Cruz is the first Republican and Latina to represent the district, thanks to GOP gerrymandering that set up her successful run in 2022 as the 15th was redrawn to be much redder, prompting the incumbent Democrat Vicente Gonzalez to move to a neighboring district. But, in Texas Republicans’ bid to deliver five more House seats to Trump in yet another round of redistricting last year, the district has since been redrawn yet again, putting her on relatively more uncertain ground.

“Eighty percent of that district she hasn’t represented in the last two two election cycles. They really don’t know her,” said Jon Taylor, a professor of political science at the University of Texas at San Antonio. “She’s as much of a challenger—a non-incumbent—as an incumbent.”

Combined with Trump’s harsh immigration enforcement and recklessness with the economy, Taylor believes “this is a decidedly toss-up race.” In June, leaked audio from a De La Cruz fundraising event revealed that her own internal polling put her neck and neck with Pulido. “We ran the poll, and what we found was that I am up by only one point,” De La Cruz told the room, according to Punchbowl News. “One point. And I said, ‘Oh, sweet Lord Jesus.’ Right? That’s not good.

While he’s known as a prominent musical performer, Pulido is no stranger to politics. He grew up immersed in the Rio Grande Valley political scene; his uncle served as a county judge and Pulido participated in a prestigious civic leadership class as a boy. In the first episode of his Ranch Hall Podcast, Pulido said campaigning with Congressman Gonzalez in 2022 inspired his own decision to run. As a young man he dropped out of college at St. Mary’s University in San Antonio, where he was pursuing a political science degree, to become a full-time musician. Now, he feels he’s picking up where he left off.

Pulido has staked himself out as a moderate-to-conservative Democrat, joining the ranks of South Texas Blue Dogs like his friend Gonzalez, who now represents the 34th District in the Valley, and Congressman Henry Cuellar in Laredo.

Republican Monica De La Cruz-Hernandez is running in the next general election for CD-15. (AP Photo/Eric Gay)

“With all due respect to the previous Democratic candidate, she might have been a little too progressive for the district,” Taylor said of Michelle Vallejo, who ran and lost against De La Cruz in 2022 and 2024. “That is not the case with Bobby Pulido.”

Pulido’s podcast has featured a wide range of friends, politicians, and other influential figures in South Texas across the political divide. He connected with his friends from the Living Large Theater podcast over their shared cultural conservatism and distaste for young lefties. In the first Ranch Hall episode, Pulido criticized Biden for betraying his centrist reputation by surrounding himself “with a lot of young progressives that were ideologically molded in East and West Coast Ivy League schools.” He argued that South Texans have always supported Democrats because “there was never a progressive ideology” with those local politicians.

It’s true that South Texas has, both in the Texas Legislature and in Washington, been historically represented by relatively conservative Dems, though there have been growing attempts to unseat those incumbents in recent years. . In recent cycles, Cuellar, the most powerful and prominent of these South Texas pols, twice narrowly fended off primary challenges by Jessica Cisneros, a young progressive backed by the insurgent group Justice Democrats.

In May, Bernie-backed progressive Julio Salinas won the Democratic primary for Texas House District 41, squarely within Congressional District 15, against an establishment-backed moderate. Salinas will still need to defeat a Republican opponent in November in this competitive district.

Pulido and Gonzalez are among 13 Democrats who signed the Promise to America (PTA), a pledge to rebuild voter trust through a set of moderate principles: capitalism, safety, fiscal responsibility, effective government, and patriotism. Shortly after, a slate of candidates from the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) won primaries in New York, igniting an intraparty feud between moderates and leftists. 

In an interview at his campaign headquarters in Pharr, Pulido said he felt uncomfortable with the ensuing social media battle between the DSA and the PTA bloc. “I still believe in what I signed,” Pulido said. “I just don’t believe in demonizing other people in my party. We’ve gotta work together.”

He believes that the current system needs reform to protect free markets and balance the budget. He wants to hold certain corporations and billionaires accountable—not with a wealth tax but by closing tax loopholes and strengthening antitrust laws. Pulido said his top priority is lowering healthcare costs, and he’s a strong supporter of the Break Up Big Medicine Act. While he does not support Medicare for All—a top priority of the party’s progressive wing—he said he would support lowering the eligible age from 65 to 55.

On foreign policy, Pulido said he was resolutely against Trump’s war on Iran, yet sounded aloof on the debate over the U.S providing arms and aid to Israel. “I don’t have as much information that a congressman is privy to,” Pulido said when asked where he stands on sending arms to Israel. “I just wish there was peace between the two, and I feel like I blame this administration for not being strong-willed enough.”

Pulido has largely focused his attacks on Congresswoman De La Cruz’s fealty to President Donald Trump and her support of his “One Big Beautiful Bill,” a budget package that radically increased ICE funding while cutting SNAP and health insurance benefits, which have thrown many Texans off the benefit and insurance rolls. Trump’s megabill also allocated funding for the construction of a border wall through the Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge, which is in the district Neither De La Cruz nor Pulido have publicly commented on the matter. When asked by the Observer, Pulido responded, “I haven’t said anything about it, but I obviously oppose it.” De La Cruz did not respond to a request for comment.

Pulido said he is opposed to demilitarizing the border, but he believes that a secure immigration system can be achieved “without destroying families and our local economy in the process.” He has called out the “cruelty and corruption” of for-profit detention centers and immigration arrest quotas. Unlike Gonzalez and Cuellar, Pulido said he would not have approved the ICE funding back in January—just weeks after the killing of Renee Good in Minneapolis. Pulido has publicly demanded the release of South Texans from migrant detention centers, including a Catholic nun and a youth mariachi group. (De La Cruz also joined calls for the release of Sister Letty Ugboaja.)

Meanwhile, the imperiled incumbent has slowly scaled up her attacks on Pulido. In March, she quipped that Pulido is more qualified to perform “at your niece’s quinceañera” than run for Congress. Pulido was quick to capitalize on the attention.

“A quinceañera isn’t just a pachanga, it’s a right of passage that brings family and neighbors together, and honestly, that’s exactly what this campaign is about,” Pulido said in a video on Facebook. He opened up an event page, which has received thousands of performance requests. Pulido said he’s managed to appear at over 50 quinces thus far. He spends weekends driving all around the Valley from one event to the next.

Democratic congressional Pulido performs his hit song “Desvelado” at the youth Creative Arts Studio at Valley View High School in Hidalgo, Texas. (Photo by Eden Shamy)

“I know for her and her friends, it was something special to have him here,” said Tiffany Tamez, whose daughter was also celebrating a quince. “But not only that, we know what it is that he’s standing for. He’s standing for family, he’s standing for us Hispanics.”

In recent months, Pulido has faced more serious accusations that he willfully ignored a former bandmate’s long criminal history. Frankie Caballero, who played off and on as Pulido’s accordionist for nearly 30 years, was imprisoned in 2014 for indecent sexual contact with an 8-year-old girl. Upon his release four years later, Caballero was welcomed back into the band. The story first broke in the right-wing tabloid New York Post and was quickly seized upon by his opponent.

De La Cruz accused Pulido of knowingly endangering children by bringing Caballero to perform on tour and at a middle school benefit. Pulido has vigorously denied that he knew anything about the accordionist’s sex crimes, stating that because the accordion player was a contract worker, they never conducted a background check on Caballero. He wrote off the scandal as politically motivated. “I think it’s desperation. She’s in a Trump +18 district, and it wasn’t even supposed to be close,” Pulido told the Observer.

But the headlines have kept on coming. Opposition operatives and news outlets have been digging up decade-old tweets, revealing comments that ranged from suggestive and crude to outright slurs. Pulido responded with a statement on Monday that played most of it off as humor and mistranslation. “Clickbait is a hell of a drug,” he said. “Some of those old tweets, they went too far. That’s my bad, and I’ve apologized.”

Still, for many Tejanos, Pulido remains a cultural icon and a musical inspiration. On July 17, the local Creative Arts Studio hosted an homage to Pulido at Valley View High School in Hidalgo. Kids dressed like vaqueros and played accordions, squeezing out the recognizable melodies of Pulido’s famous tunes. He joined the young musicians on stage and bestowed them with some advice. “Music is heart,” Pulido told the students in Spanish. “You have to do this for the love of music. Don’t do things just to be famous.”

Tamez said it’s that type of humility that makes Pulido a great candidate and ambassador for the community. “I’ve known Bobby’s music since I was probably in diapers,” she said. “He’s using his fame in a positive way, and he’s still a down-to-earth, humble guy.”

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