By now, dozens of journalists have taken a turn writing about the so-called “Hope Florida” scandal, a bizarre waltz in which $10 million meant to repay Medicaid overcharges was instead two-stepped through a quasi-state agency/charity affiliated with first lady Casey DeSantis, and then twirled through a back door where the cash was dumped into political campaigns against a ballot amendment on marijuana usage.

In that particular story, the entire Hope Florida organization is something of a backup dancer — it’s definitely onstage, but its role could have been filled by any state agency willing to let its own fiscal oversight be hijacked. Still, there comes a moment in every story where journalists have to explain exactly what this Hope Florida thing is.

And that, dear readers, has been a bit of a challenge.

Because in a state whose government is supposed to be blessed with sunshine 365 days a year, Hope Florida is shady as heck. For starters, it’s really two organizations: The governmental arm (which resides in the Department of Children and Families, but is not mentioned by name in the state’s 551-page budget even once) and a nonprofit foundation that can accept tax-deductible contributions and is the entity that actually served as the riverbed for the Medicaid-to-politics cash.

A shady subject

And what, exactly, does Hope Florida do? That’s a question the Orlando Sentinel’s Jeffrey Schweers (and other hard-working journalists and advocacy groups across the state) have been trying to answer for years.

Only to be told by the state: “Hey! Cut that out!”

Yep, Schweers was actually sent a cease-and-desist letter after seeking out interviews with some of the people said to have benefited from Hope Florida’s erratic generosity — including some people who were included in official state press releases that usually showed up on the websites of Gov. Ron DeSantis or DCF.

More on that letter later. It was definitely a head-turner, and a broad hint that there were bigger questions to answer about this weird little state-agency/charity that is barely described in official state documents but seems to be meddling in the affairs of some of Florida’s biggest and most influential agencies, including DCF, the Department of Education, the Agency for Health Care Administration (which was responsible for the $10 million that ended up temporarily in Hope Florida’s hands, but has also hinted that it’s interested in a “greater role” for Hope Florida in its management of the $35-billion-plus Medicaid program, meant to provide health care to low-income Floridians).

Most recently, Casey DeSantis announced plans in August to connect nursing homes to “faith communities” to help with … things? It is not exactly clear what the new program will do, or how much it will cost or who will be footing the bill. Nor can we find any description of how vulnerable seniors will be protected from organizations that serve as a front for cults or financial exploitation rings.

That emphasis on faith appears to be one of Hope Florida’s biggest principles: The idea that religious communities and nonprofits are just chomping at the bit to help all kinds of vulnerable Floridians: Children, adults struggling with poverty and addiction, seniors, and more — not by fulfilling those groups’ original missions and ministries, but by taking on part of the burden that the state is supposed to be carrying.

That theme is writ large on the official Hope Florida website, with anecdote after anecdote (all written in the same vaguely glowing language that sounds as if it were generated by AI) about unnamed Floridians whose lives were drastically improved when Hope Florida “navigators” hooked them up with local nonprofit and religious groups. Everyone is smiling, sending the clear message: Hope Florida is totally getting it done. Praise the Lord!

Where are the numbers?

Here’s what’s missing: Hard data on how many Floridians are actually being diverted into private, often faith-based programs despite the fact that they are eligible for state-backed assistance. Groups like the Florida Policy Institute have been asking for this information. They haven’t gotten it.

Neither have we. In fact, when Schweers attempted to track down some of Hope Florida’s claimed beneficiaries, DCF slapped him with a cease-and-desist letter that accused him (falsely) of harassing and bullying foster parents who got assistance through Hope Florida in rebuilding storm-damaged homes. That letter — which arrived in June – only served to pique the Sentinel’s interest. That led to a story in July that described a truly bizarre 2022 press conference involving five small local charities who were summoned (with almost no advance preparation) to a location where a smiling Casey DeSantis swooped in, handed out oversized $10,000 checks, posed for pictures and then sped off in a state motorcade, leaving baffled but thankful philanthropists in her wake.

One of the groups that got a check at a similar event in Lakeland later used the $10k to take two kids on a “once in a lifetime” fishing trip, Schweers reported. After persistent public-records requests, Schweers was also given a list of people who had been listed as recipients of disaster-recovery funding. He never harassed any of them, though he did call them, identify himself and ask if they wanted to be interviewed about their Hope Florida experiences. If they said no, he moved on.

He did find a few interesting payments, including two (totaling nearly $1,000) to a Lakeland woman who attended a $95,500 fundraising golf tournament. Quite a few similarly odd stories have popped up, sometimes reported by other outlets.

State law, and Hope Florida’s own rules, say grants and other giveaways conducted under the auspices of state government should be subject to selection criteria and paper trails. Joshua Hay, the foundation’s president, admitted during a legislative hearing in April that most grants and expenditures were made by DCF, though he couldn’t name a specific person in the state agency. He acknowledged “lapses in reporting procedures,” and said the group should “strengthen our procedures around monitoring what the funds are used for.”

We could discover almost no evidence of that improved oversight. Instead, Schweers reported in December that the agency could not account for vehicles painted with the Hope Florida logo that were parked at the Tallahassee Mall.

A dubious audit

The group did undergo an audit, of sorts. The results, prepared by Texas-based auditor Atchley and Associates and released in April as an 18-page draft, were full of hazy assertions that most things seemed fine at the agency.

We have a few problems with that claim, especially since the “audit” didn’t even really attempt to address the $10 million that slipped in and out of the foundation’s coffers around the time the audit was meant to cover — money a Tallahassee grand jury found was “misappropriated” but so skillfully covered up that there was no way to unspool who was actually responsible.

Last week, Schweers and the Sentinel won the Society of Professional Journalists’ Barbara A. Petersen Freedom of Information Award. This was gratifying — particularly since we quoted Petersen herself in the stories expressing righteous outrage at how ridiculously secretive the entire Hope Florida affair has been. (Petersen now heads the Florida Center for Governmental Accountability, which has done its share of investigative work into Hope Florida.)

But that award is just a spur, both for the Sentinel and the greater Florida journalism community. What exactly is Hope Florida? What is it doing, where is it getting its money, how many Floridians’ lives are being affected and are they really benefiting? These are questions we won’t stop asking. And we’re determined to see the truth come out.

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