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"It [is] so important to Utah history that we don’t brush this under the rug."
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When someone is killed by another person — something that happens, on average, to 83 Utahns in a year, according to state government data — they leave behind devastated families who need legal aid to protect their loved ones’ assets and pursue justice.
Brandon Merrill, founder and director of Utah Homicide Survivors, is familiar with this grief.
“Their grief is continuous. It never gets better,” Merrill said. “You just learn to live with it. And the support that they need is so much more than people realize.”
Merrill’s group works to provide legal services to families who have lost someone to homicide. The group has worked with more than 200 families, to support and guide them through the civil court system — to look beyond the criminal justice system, which considers only the crime, to help families with the perpetrator’s financial and other legal obligations.
In homicide cases, grieving family members are left with the work of going to civil courts on such issues as insurance, victims compensation and — in cases where the homicide is committed within the family — delegation of shared assets and child custody agreements.
Since its creation in April 2019, Utah Homicide Survivors has recovered more than $5.75 million in assets for these families, according to the organization.
The first step in any case, Merrill said, is finding and freezing the victim’s assets. This is particularly true, he said, in homicides that stem from domestic violence — the majority of the cases the group handles, Merrill said — where the killer stands to profit by taking sole ownership of homes, cars, bank accounts and other property that he or she shared with the victim.
“We just try to make sure that nobody is profiting from it, really,” he said, “and that the victim’s family are getting as much as possible, if not everything.”
According to the Utah Department of Health and Human Services, domestic violence accounted for 22.7% of all Utah homicides in 2020. Domestic violence affects a third of Utah’s women and nearly a quarter of its men.
McKenzie Wood, a criminal justice assistant professor at Weber State University, said the dangers come from more than just those in abusive marriages or partnerships.
Domestic violence also can occur between partners who don’t live together or who have a purely sexual relationship. Often, Wood said, a bystander, law enforcement, a new partner or a child may try to intervene and get caught in the middle.
The risk of violence is increased by 1,000% when the abuser has access to a firearm, according to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. In Utah each year, according to the coalition’s data, about 80 children will witness the killing or attempted killing of their mother.
Cases where children are involved are among the hardest to handle, Merrill said.
“We have kids now who have lost both parents — the person who died, and the person who killed the person that died,” Merrill said. “So their whole world is pretty much shattered.”
Utah Homicide Survivors also helps families through the adoption process, to let children return to safe and familiar homes where they can continue to process their grief.
Lisa Williams, who was shot and killed by her boyfriend’s ex-wife in 2018 in Midvale, was “very caring and just giving,” said her sister, Bekah Williams.
“She was beautiful, so kind, funny,” Bekah Williams said. “Just every good thing a person could be.”
Bekah Williams got connected with Utah Homicide Survivors, who supported her through the civil case to ensure the killer — who was found guilty of aggravated murder and is serving a 25-to-life sentence at the Utah State Correctional Facility — could not profit off of Lisa’s story.
“UHS really was the crutch I leaned on,” she said. “I have just the warmest regards and appreciation for them.”
Williams said she was thankful for how Merrill and his team set her expectations about the trial and what was to come after each step in the process. This straightforward information helped her mentally prepare herself and her family for the trial, she said.
She said people with other resources were quick to make promises but ultimately disappointed her. It seemed like people were afraid of hurting her feelings, she said, so they overpromised instead.
“We’ve already gone through the worst thing imaginable,” Bekah Williams said. “The best thing that you could do right now is just be honest and manage expectations.”
Utah Homicide Survivors handled everything with “a lot of grace and a lot of kindness and so much compassion,” Williams said. “Brandon and his organization are just … purpose-driven and truly doing so much good.”
The nonprofit, in addition to providing legal services for free, hosts the state’s only free therapy group for relatives of homicide victims, said Maria Blanchard, the group’s therapy director.
“It is grief unlike any other,” said Blanchard, who also worked as Utah County’s first victim advocate in 2003.
Blanchard said families in homicide cases have to deal with a lack of resources, a lack of training in how to use the available resources and, above all, a lack of compassion.
“It’s just like, ‘Oh, there’s another death,’” Blanchard said. “There’s no respect for human life. But when it’s yours [or] your loved one, it just hits so much differently.”
Darcie Housley said she felt that lack of compassion first-hand — after her son, Brian, 28, was killed in a drive-by shooting in Ogden in 2017.
Housley said she had little to no communication from Ogden police about the investigation into Brian’s death, which remains unsolved. It was incredibly frustrating, she said, to have so many emails go unanswered.
Housley said she was frustrated that her son’s case had passed the statute of limitations to file a civil case. However, she was able to find solace and community within the therapy group hosted by Utah Homicide Survivors.
“I had been looking for a support group all along,” said Housley. “I needed to hear how other people are dealing with it.”
Jamie Pitt, in the Weber County Attorney’s Office, said she frequently sees that frustration from victims’ families.
“It’s just really frustrating [that] most of the time that there’s nothing we can do,” said Pitt, who is the victim coordinator supervisor and homicide task force administrator in the Weber County Attorney’s Office. Fighting for victims’ rights, she said, often feels like “an uphill battle.”
Utah law has codified the rights of victims, Pitt said — but defendants’ rights are written into the U.S. Constitution, which typically takes precedence. Pitt said she tells families that “you do have rights, but the Constitution kind of trumps everything else.”
In 2023, the Utah Legislature passed and Gov. Spencer Cox signed HB244, to create the Utah Victim Services Commission within the Utah Commission on Criminal and Juvenile Justice — and budgeted $500,000 to help get the commission going and another $550,000 to staff it. In this year’s session, the Legislature allocated $562,000 for the commission’s budget for fiscal year 2025.
The director of the commission, Marlesse Jones, has dedicated much of her life to the advocacy of victims, and to training state agencies on how to best navigate trauma. Jones said that as the commission reaches full staffing, she is excited to connect with the community and work towards streamlining the process for victims of trauma to get help faster.
“It’s phenomenal that Utah is finally supporting the needs of victims,” Jones said. “It[’s] hopefully something that will continue to grow and catch on in other states as well.”
The commission will be composed of representatives from various state departments such as the Office for Victims of Crime, the Children’s Justice Center, the Division of Multicultural Affairs, and the Department of Public Safety, in addition to community stakeholders such as a victims representative.
“I think the greatest strength is going to come from the collaborative nature of the voices at the table,” Jones said. “Our goal as a commission is to affect change, to elevate response to victims, to build bridges and break down silos.”
Jones added that $500,000 of their 2024 budget is for a statewide study on victims services to determine their current strengths and weaknesses. She said that this research will give the commission a better perspective on where to start improving services already in place.
Merrill said he believes that the commission will be an asset to improving victims services across the state. The ongoing problem, though, is funding.
The federal Victims of Crime Act Fund, which provides support to programs that assist crime victims, has been diminishing in recent years. Utah Homicide Survivors has felt the decline in federal funds, Merrill said. When the group started in 2019, it was getting about $280,000 a year from the feds. More recently, that funding has dropped in half, to about $140,000 a year.
President Joe Biden in 2021 signed into law the VOCA Fix Act, reinstating billions of dollars in victim services. Merrill said getting that money to victims will take time — and in the meantime, his group is relying on private donations and other government grants to keep going.
With a bigger budget, Merrill said, Utah Homicide Providers could expand its small team, which now consists of three full-time employees and five part-time employees.
“We’re pretty new and young as an organization,” Merrill said. “There’s not really a group like us.”
Star Neil wrote this story as a student at Weber State University. It is published as part of an ongoing collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
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We also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text: This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Star Neil wrote this story as a journalism student at Weber State University. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.
On April 9, 2006, tens of thousands of people marched down Salt Lake City’s State Street for humane immigration reform – a protest outnumbering the city’s protests of the Vietnam War and Civil Rights movement.
An organizer of the 2006 march, University of Utah professor Armando Solórzano, recently created an exhibit, “Invisible No More: Latinx’s Dignity March in Utah,” to honor the march and give voice to the millions of undocumented immigrants throughout Utah and the country.
The exhibit is on display at Mestizo Coffeehouse, 631 W. North Temple, Salt Lake City. It’s free and open to the public until Oct. 15, in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month.
Solórzano said the exhibit’s purpose is not only to educate the community, but to provide undocumented immigrants in Utah the chance to feel recognized.
“A lot of people recognize themselves in the march,” he said. “This is not only a historical exhibition. It’s alive.”
The exhibit consists of 60 framed photos, as well as poems, newspaper articles and original T-shirts from the event spread throughout the shop. All captions are provided in English and Spanish.
Photos throughout the exhibit display pictures of Latinx parents holding children on their shoulders, signs reading, “Without me, your economy goes down,” and crowds of marchers wearing white to promote peace.
“I work under the assumption that an image talks a thousand times more than words,” Solórzano said.
Multiple photos of the crowd are displayed at the exhibit, some of which have been thought to be doctored to show more attendees. Solórzano denied any such tampering, and estimated that the crowd was around 43,000 people — though city police at the time reported only 25,000.
Solórzano said the inspiration for the photo exhibit came from a teaching method used in Latinx education involving photo analysis.
Because English is the official language of the state, and many Latinx people do not know English, they are taught to analyze photos to learn a story, he said. Similarly, Solórzano said he wanted to teach the community about the march through this lens.
The photos represent not just Utah’s past, but the future, Solórzano said.
“I want [viewers] to recognize the amazing capacity of the people,” he said.
Solórzano said he has seen both positive and negative outcomes since the 2006 march.
He pointed to various children in photos who are now students at the U.
“All these kids were marching on their parents’ shoulders, which to me is very symbolic,” he said. “It is the immigrants that carry the future of this nation.”
On the other hand, he said he feels the Latinx community is still under-resourced and discriminated against in Utah.
“Many times people tell us to go home,” he said. “Well, this is our home. … This is the land of my ancestors. This is where they work, this is where they die, this is where I am and this is where we are going to be.”
David Galvan, co-owner of Mestizo Coffeehouse, translated “mestizo” to mean “mixed blood,” or a combination of many different cultures. Galvan described Mestizo as a shop founded by artists who wanted to create a safe community space for those of all cultures. which created the perfect environment for the exhibit.
Galvan also said the University of Utah has been a “huge collaborator” with Mestizo, which has created relationships with various members of faculty and staff, including Solórzano.
“Invisible No More: Latinx’s Dignity March in Utah” has been displayed numerous times in such locations as Washington, D.C., and Mexico City — to honor the millions of immigrants in the United States and remind them of their right to dignity.
“We will take the challenge to prove who we are and defend the rights of immigrants,” Solórzano said. “They have the right to have a country and to be protected.”
Libbey Hanson wrote this story as a student at the University of Utah. It is published as part of an ongoing collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
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We also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text :This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Libbey Hanson wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.
This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through student journalism.
While the barracks of the Topaz internment camp in Delta have long since vanished, scholars say the legal framework that imprisoned more than 125,000 Japanese Americans during World War II remains relevant.
This year, eight decades after the camp was dismantled, the Trump administration has pushed to renew the 1798 Alien Enemies Act— a wartime law last used in part to justify Japanese American incarceration. This time, Trump, speaking as a candidate at an Oct. 11, 2024, rally, said he wanted to invoke it as part of his deportation strategy.
“[I intend] to target and dismantle every migrant criminal network operating on American soil,” he said.
In the four months since Trump’s second inauguration, over 250 Venezuelan migrants, identified by authorities as having gang ties with the organization Tren de Aragua, have been deported, according to Secretary of State Marco Rubio. The administration has invoked the statute to detain migrants without court hearings or asylum screenings.
“They're using that law that allowed all the Japanese Americans to be incarcerated,” said Karie Minaga-Miya, whose own mother and uncle were incarcerated at Topaz. “They're using that very same law right now to deport people.”
Matt Basso, a University of Utah history and gender studies associate professor, said this act, historically, has only been issued during times of declared war. The Trump administration has argued the use of the act is justified by what is being defined as an “invasion”— the same term used in the statute’s language.
“The law has slightly larger parameters in the language, but the U.S. legal system is in significant part built on precedent,” Basso said. “Many people have seen this law as rooted in the World War II context.”
On March 15, U.S. District Judge James Boasberg issued an order for the Trump administration to stop deporting Venezuelan migrants. This order, the judge said, was ignored, and the Justice Department argued that the planes carrying the migrants had already left the U.S. airspace.
Now, Human Rights Watch reports the Venezuelan deportees are facing inhumane conditions at the Center for Terrorism Confinement in Tacoluca, El Salvador. The organization, which has investigated human rights abuses for more than 40 years, reports the mistreatment of prisoners includes prolonged isolation, the denial of due process and inadequate access to healthcare and food.
(courtesy Jeanette Misaka) Jeanette Misaka, 94, stands before a "You Can Do It!" banner. Misaka was incarcerated at Heart Mountain in Wyoming, along with thousands of other Americans of Japanese heritage during World War II.
Those with personal connections to Japanese American incarceration warn that, when overlooked, the framing of these events may obscure reality.
For Jeanette Misaka, who was incarcerated at Heart Mountain in Wyoming as a child, these recent deportation actions echo a darker chapter in U.S. history.
“In the beginning, they used the terms ‘relocation, assembly center,’” she said. “That was a euphemism for what really was an American concentration camp.”
The U.S. government’s use of the term “voluntary evacuation” at the time contributed to a distorted public understanding of Japanese American incarceration, said Darin Mano, Salt Lake City councilmember and fourth-generation Japanese American.
“‘Voluntary’ implies that it’s something that you choose to do, and it really was more coercive than it was voluntary,” he said. “Evacuation is a term we use more often for getting somebody out of an unsafe situation, [but] it was based on fear and racism.”
Understanding this history remains urgent, said Glen Feighery, associate professor of communication at the U. and the author of two research articles about the internment at Topaz.
“With historical knowledge, we are in historical times in terms of what is happening politically,” he said.
Alongside Craig Wirth, a veteran documentarian and adjunct associate professor, Feighery led journalism and communication students this spring semester in creating a documentary on the legacy of Topaz.
“History is important, and, quite literally, if we don’t know it, we suffer,” Feighery said.
For Crystal Fraughton, a junior in Feighery’s “Documenting Topaz” class, the goal of the final project is more than remembering past events but understanding the patterns that shaped them, she said.
“It’s not just about knowing the date and that something happened,” Fraughton added. “It is important to understand the signs of it and how it happens and what leads to it if we’re ever going to learn from our mistakes.”
Fraughton noted that her own education had largely overlooked the history of Topaz.
“I knew there had been a camp in Utah, but I was never taught in depth about it in school,” said Fraughton, who grew up in American Fork.
Minaga-Miya said even families with a direct connection to Topaz were often unaware of the camp’s existence and history. She didn’t know until she attended law school, for example, that her mother had been interned at Topaz.
“My mother never talked about it,” Minaga-Miya said. “I just think it’s part of my generation’s responsibility to speak up for our parents or grandparents who were unable to or didn’t want to.”
Misaka said she sees sharing these stories as a way to challenge the silence that has surrounded Japanese American incarceration for generations.
“It's part of our United States history, and it's [not] mentioned very often in the schools,” she said. “But I think that it should be … so that it's not repeated again.”
Despite a lack of public understanding surrounding this chapter of American history, Basso said Japanese American incarceration is now widely acknowledged as a moral failure.
“Almost all Americans understand, I think, what a grave mistake, in hindsight, Japanese and Japanese American incarceration was,” he said.
But, for advocates like Floyd Mori, former executive director of the Japanese American Citizens League, with acknowledgment must come action.
“It’s critical that we speak out very loudly and to bring other discriminated-against people together to make awareness that this is an act of racism and discrimination,” Mori said. “It was bad when it happened then, and it is bad today to have it reoccur.” That understanding, Basso said, requires telling the full story.
“Our history as a nation is complicated, and it is important to know because it can serve as a guide for all folks, all Americans, and others as we consider actions today,” he said. “But we have to know the fullest version and not oversimplify.”
The Day of Remembrance, recognized every Feb. 19, honors those imprisoned at Topaz and other camps and raises awareness of how civil liberties can be compromised in times of crisis, according to the Citizens League. This year, the organization is urging action, noting on its website that the history of what happened to Japanese Americans during WWII, “is not unique.”
“The important element is: don't let it happen again,” Mori said. “You're not going to avoid bad things in history unless you understand history.”
Marissa Bond wrote this story as a journalism student at the University of Utah. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
The pool is silent except for the rhythmic slapping of water as the swimmers move back and forth. The laps seem endless, and the quiet breaks only when the coach calls out instructions. The smell of chlorine sits in the air as the swimmers listen.
Younger swimmers laugh a few lanes over at the Granger High School pool, but this group of older swimmers is more focused. Still, there’s laughter.
“The coaches make it fun, even though you are working out,” said 13-year-old Mirely Munoz, who joined the team nearly eight years ago after moving to Salt Lake from Wyoming.
Munoz swims for Race Swami, a team founded in 2011 to offer kids in the Rose Park and Glendale communities a place in the world of competitive youth swimming. About 80% of the team’s swimmers are athletes of color -- a rarity in the predominantly white sport, said founding coach Matt Finnigan.
Finnigan, who swam collegiately at Florida State University, first noticed a gap in opportunities for local swimmers as the coach of Judge Memorial Catholic High School’s team. A couple of his swimmers from Rose Park and Glendale wanted to keep swimming through the summer.
Finnigan encouraged them to join a year-round club, but they said there was nothing close by and they couldn’t afford to join one of the clubs in the wealthier neighborhoods like students at Judge, an east-side private school, could afford.
Finnigan said he knew Race Swami would need steady funding to offer scholarships and cover other expenses like technical competition suits that can cost hundreds of dollars.
(Jared Stanger | Amplify Utah) Matt Finnigan founded Race Swami in 2011 as a swim program for youth in the Rose Park and Glendale communities.
It took a year of planning, plus funding from various foundations to get the team up and running. Race Swami’s first donation came from the McCarthey Family Foundation in Salt Lake City, and was followed by donations from the Sorenson Legacy Foundation and the George S. and Dolores Doré Eccles Foundation.
A donation from the Larry H. and Gail Miller Foundation provides each new swimmer with the specialized swimming gear required for competitive swimming, such as paddles, fins, kickboards and snorkels.
“The donations provide a chance for the swimmers to train hard and get to a higher level,” Finnigan said.
Data from USA Swimming, the national governing body for competitive swimming in the United States, shows just 7% of its members are Hispanic or Latinx and 6% are African American or Black.
The lack of representation in the sport, Finnigan said, brought challenges when the team first competed. Finnigan said a meet official criticized the team’s appearance, blaming swimmers’ socioeconomic status.
“I know you have poor kids,” Finnigan recalls the official saying, “but I need them in real suits.”
Later, Finnigan secured a donation for high-end hoodies embroidered with the team’s and swimmer’s names. When they showed up at a local meet, he was asked by another coach how his team could afford the expensive gear.
“Our kids deserved those,” he said. “They wanted to look good.”
It wasn’t until 2016 that USA Swimming, in an effort to increase diversity, began releasing a series of cultural inclusion guides, according to Swimswam Magazine. The guides — which focus on African American, Asian American, LGBTQ+, Hispanic/Latino communities in swimming — serve as a tool for improving diversity and inclusion. The Hispanic/Latino Cultural Inclusion Resource Guide is written in both English and Spanish.
Finnigan said he wishes these resources were available when he started the team. He encountered language barriers early on. Many of the swimmers were bilingual, but their parents only spoke Spanish. It made communication difficult for Finnigan. The kids helped translate and, now he said, his Spanish has improved.
“It’s better than it was. The kids still like to correct me though,” he said.
As USA Swimming focuses on increasing representation, 17-year-old sprint freestyler Amy Chung said she’s more focused on the sport itself.
“When I’m at a meet, I notice there aren’t a lot of people that look like me, but I don’t feel different,” said Chung, who has been swimming since she was 8. “Everyone is there to compete.”
And she loves to compete. Not only in the pool but also in the classroom, where strong academics at Taylorsville High School are taking her to the Naval Academy in the fall. Chung, who is Asian American, joined Race Swami last year because she loves the support she feels from her teammates and coaches.
She credits the coaches for preparing her for the hard work and challenges that she will face as she works to get into medical school.
“The coaches here have taught us more than swimming,” she said. “I’ve learned time management, to work with teammates, and to be competitive.”
The swimmers have also learned to be resilient.
“At first it was hurtful when other teams would make comments [about our backgrounds] in the locker rooms,” said Lorena Thompson, a 16-year-old junior at West High School.
After 10 years of swimming, she has learned to focus instead on swimming fast and giving back to the community, which Finnigan encourages. Last year, for example, the team partnered with students from the University of Utah to make mats out of plastic bags to be used at women’s shelters in Salt Lake City.
Ed Munoz also appreciates the sense of community he feels with the team. After moving to Utah from Wyoming in 2013, the single dad of two daughters felt lost without any family or friends for support. Instead, they found a place to belong at Race Swami.
“The swim team became our community,” Munoz said, noting his daughter Mirely has connected with the female dominated-team.
Mirely, who was the youngest member of the team when she began swimming at eight years old, says the best thing about the team is the moral support.
“The coaches take the time to listen and help everyone with their personal needs and not just swimming stuff,” she said. “They help us with school too.”
It is this mindset of helping outside the pool that brought coach Russell Lauber out of retirement and back onto the pool deck as coach at Race Swami. Lauber coached the Cottonwood Heights Aquatics Team for 27 years and Brighton High School for 25 years. Under his tenure, the girls teams won an unprecedented 20 consecutive state championships and his boys teams won 16 state championships.
“If all we wanted were fast swimmers, we would get trained seals,” he said. “When the swimming days are over and you move on to college and a professional life, no one asks how fast you were. Instead, they ask can you handle the rigor of the school, job or program. Swimming prepares these kids for life challenges.”
Finnigan is proud of what he says is the team’s 100% high school graduation rate.
He said his wife Mary Chris Finnigan works as an academic advisor at the University of Utah and helps arrange academic tutors for homework. She also sets up ACT prep classes for older swimmers.
“All of the kids from our club have gone on to college,” he said. “Swimming has given them the confidence to set high goals and pursue them.”
