Warning: This story contains graphic language, and descriptions of violence and suicide.

W

hen Lili Steele got home from work on that hot, humid evening in August 2021, she expected to find her husband, Sgt. Kevin Steele, sitting at his desk working on his book. The couple had moved to a rural area near Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks after Steele had taken a leave of absence from his job as an investigator in a high-security prison in Folsom, California.

Writing the book, Lili said, “was his new job.” The manuscript chronicled Steele’s decade at the prison, where he had become increasingly frustrated with a system he came to see as corrupt and antithetical to his deep Christian faith. His project had an ominous working title: The Thin Line Blurs…How to Kill a Cop…Betrayal.

But the 56-year-old wasn’t at his desk.

Lili called Steele’s phone and found it ringing on the kitchen counter. She started to panic; she knew her husband had been struggling. Months earlier, he’d told her that he was haunted by a “trailer of dead people.” Some were soldiers he’d served alongside in Iraq who hadn’t made it home. The rest were from the California State Prison, Sacramento, known colloquially as New Folsom.

There was Ronnie Price, the 65-year-old whose arms were shackled behind his back when correctional officers slammed him to the ground, fatally injuring him. There was Luis Giovanny Aguilar, the young man who’d been stabbed to death by two other incarcerated men in full view of officers. Finally, and perhaps most painfully, there was his friend, officer Valentino Rodriguez Jr., who’d died of a fentanyl overdose six days after blowing the whistle on fellow officers for alleged misconduct.

“Kevin, you didn’t kill those people, you tried to help,” Lili remembers telling her husband. “You followed the protocol, the chain of command. You told the people in charge. It’s up to them to carry the ball now.”

After searching the house, Lili walked from the open garage across their driveway to a red storage shed. That’s where she found her husband already dead. Steele had hanged himself.

In a recording of the 911 call, the dispatcher can be heard asking Lili if her husband had been sick.

“No,” she sobbed. “He’s been dealing with a lot of stuff from his work.”

Considered in isolation, Steele’s suicide might have been chalked up to one man’s struggle, but the timing — less than a year after the death of his friend Rodriguez, who worked in the same elite unit — points at something larger. A multiyear KQED investigation and an eight-part podcast called On Our Watch found a persistent code of silence among New Folsom officers that went largely unchecked by prison leadership and the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR). An exclusive analysis of hundreds of internal use-of-force records, dozens of leaked documents and videos, and interviews with current and former CDCR officers revealed a culture of cover-ups that enabled the abuse of incarcerated people, officer-on-officer harassment and at least two homicides at the prison.

A spokesperson said in an email that CDCR “maintains a zero-tolerance policy on code of silence” and that the agency “is fundamentally reforming its approach to addressing allegations of staff misconduct to enhance staff accountability and improve transparency.”

Over the past year and a half the agency declined KQED’s multiple requests to interview New Folsom’s outgoing warden, Jeff Lynch, and the head of the agency, Secretary Jeff Macomber, who served as the warden there from 2013 to 2016. The agency also did not respond to a request to speak with Jason Schultz, who was appointed acting warden in November. CDCR representatives have repeatedly declined to answer questions about the high rate of use of force at New Folsom. They said they could not comment on specific allegations made by Steele and Rodriguez before their deaths.

But a trove of written and recorded materials left behind by the two officers and obtained by KQED details their fear of retribution and sense of despair as they tried to expose misconduct in their institution.

Outlier

Steele started off as a true believer. Hired by CDCR in 2001, he was initially assigned to San Quentin before transferring to New Folsom in 2008. Sprawled along the American River just outside Sacramento, the prison houses about 2,200 people, many of whom have mental health needs or have been convicted of the most serious crimes.

Working as a correctional officer appealed to the sense of duty and service Steele had enjoyed in his Air Force career, while also promising good benefits and opportunities for advancement. The sergeant’s brother, Michael, said he liked to claim that nobody “worked harder than a Steele.” If his shift started at five in the morning, he’d arrive at four. Each day on his way into New Folsom, Steele walked past the Gothic green tower of the adjoining old Folsom prison (made famous by Johnny Cash) carrying his lunch in a clear plastic bag through the checkpoint of the newer facility. Once he clocked in, “he didn’t stop moving,” said Steele’s colleague, retired correctional officer Annette Eichhorn.

Prison leadership entrusted Steele with a lot of responsibilities, from drug testing officers to leading annual trainings. In 2015, he was promoted to prosecution coordinator in the Investigative Services Unit (ISU). Known among officers and incarcerated people as the “squad,” the specialized team serves as the police force for the prison, investigating crimes committed by prisoners and complaints against staff, including for excessive use of force.

Officers can lawfully use their hands, batons and even the weight of their bodies to subdue prisoners who resist, or ignore their commands. They can deploy less lethal weapons like pepper spray and foam bullets to stop fights or break up riots. If someone’s life is in danger, officers can respond with deadly force. In general, force has to be proportional to the threat, and cannot be used after a threat has been subdued, or as retaliation or punishment.

Even among high-security prisons, where violent encounters with staff are most common, New Folsom stands out: It had the highest overall use-of-force rate of any California state prison from 2009 through 2023, according to an in-depth analysis of CDCR reports published by researchers at University of California, Berkeley, in partnership with KQED. CDCR has not yet posted all the data for this year, but numbers released so far show that use-of-force rates at New Folsom remain the highest in the state.

New Folsom has been even more of an outlier when it comes to the most serious cases — those in which officers use deadly force or badly injure incarcerated people. KQED’s exclusive analysis of investigative records from 2014 through 2019 revealed that New Folsom had three times as many of these cases as any other prison in the state.

A CDCR spokesperson told KQED last year that she took issue with KQED’s analysis of general use-of-force data, but the agency did not respond to further detailed requests for clarification and questions regarding these findings.

Warden Jeff Lynch appeared unaware of an unusual level of officer violence at New Folsom. Asked about it during a media tour of the facility in April 2023, he said use-of-force rates at his prison were “probably pretty similar” to other high-security facilities in California.

But over the years, Steele had raised grave concerns about officer violence to prison leadership. It was part of his job to collect the statements of prisoners who’d been injured by guards, and he’d noticed a troubling pattern.

A cover-up

On Sept. 16, 2016, Steele interviewed 65-year-old Ronnie Price as he lay handcuffed on a gurney in the hallway of the UC Davis Medical Center with visible trauma to his face that included missing teeth and a broken jaw.

In his unfinished book, Steele wrote that he expected to find a “combative, disruptive and quarrelsome inmate,” but instead found Price “pleasant and amicable.” Steele recalled Price telling him that officers had tried to force him to move to the cell of an active gang member, which Price feared would mean trouble.

In a recording of the interview acquired by KQED, Price told Steele that during the escort he passively resisted officers, who then shackled his feet together. His hands were already chained behind his back. As they walked him through the rotunda of the housing unit — an area not covered by surveillance cameras — Price said an officer stepped on the chain between his ankles, causing him to fall face-first onto the cement floor. Price told Steele that as he raised his head to spit out his bloody teeth, “Somebody grabbed my head and slammed it into the ground.”

The next day, Price died of a pulmonary embolism related to his injuries, according to the coroner’s report. Steele attended the autopsy and then contacted his bosses. “I was very specific when I advised the administration and my supervisor that I believed that staff were responsible for the death of Inmate Price,” he writes in his book.

Internal documents obtained by KQED through a public records request show that officers wrote the incident up to make it look like Price posed an active threat, claiming that he’d “spun to his left, and lunged forward breaking free” of the escort and that “immediate force” was used “to overcome” resistance.

But after lengthy investigations by the FBI and CDCR, five officers and a sergeant would lose their jobs, and three of them would be convicted of federal charges related to excessive force and efforts to cover up the truth about Price’s death.

It is exceedingly rare for officers to be disciplined for injuring people in California prisons, but Steele believed the Price cover-up was not an isolated incident. Over the next year, he reported at least two more incidents in which officers’ version of events failed to explain the severe injuries of the men he spoke to. Joel Uribe and Ramiro Navarro, independently made strikingly similar allegations in their use-of-force interviews with Steele: During separate escorts, officers had stopped in an area not covered by surveillance cameras and badly beat them.

“Please don’t think I’m exaggerating,” said Uribe, 50, who’s still in prison but no longer at New Folsom. “They really wanted to have me killed.” Uribe told KQED he was targeted because staff wrongly suspected that he had helped provoke an attack on an officer. Navarro, 56, said in a phone interview from prison that officers punched and hit him with a metal tool. He told Steele the last thing he remembered before he “passed out” was an officer kicking him in the head. Both men were in restraints for the escort, according to case documents, and denied provoking the officers’ assaults.

But an officer claimed in his report that Uribe “spun around” and struck out with a walking cane, at which point the officer used “immediate physical force to overcome resistance, subdue an attack and effect custody.” A supervisor wrote that after Navarro “aggressively swung his head” in an attempt to headbutt them, officers used “the minimal amount of physical force needed to place Navarro in a prone position.”

Documents show that Uribe suffered a concussion, broken ribs, and a face laceration; he told KQED he still has hearing loss in one of his ears. Navarro’s ribs were also broken, and doctors inserted a chest tube to drain blood from around his lung, reports show.

Despite internal investigations and formal complaints made by Uribe and Navarro, no officers were ever disciplined. Instead, documents show that both prisoners were written up for the incidents; each said they were sent to solitary confinement for a year.

In all, a dozen men who were incarcerated at New Folsom told KQED that officers had used force as retaliation for causing trouble, submitting complaints or even attempting suicide, which triggers a protocol that means extra work for officers. Many of these men had filed formal grievances, but to little effect. Internal reports documenting serious use-of-force incidents at New Folsom from 2014 through 2021 show that, aside from the case involving Price, only one other incident resulted in discipline for an officer, who CDCR fired for using a prohibited chokehold.

Unlike Steele, many CDCR employees chose not to speak up. Four current and former correctional officers — who asked KQED for anonymity because they feared for their job security or physical safety — said that it was well known that some officers would beat up incarcerated people. Each said they witnessed at least one of these beatings firsthand, but did not report misconduct due to fear of retaliation from their fellow officers or supervisors.

“I’m sorry that we were too fearful to do the right thing when we were there,” said one retired officer. “But to live under that kind of fear, I can’t explain to you.”

Sgt. Kevin Steele conducted use-of-force interviews with incarcerated people; subjects’ faces were redacted by the agency. Edited from video footage obtained from CDCR via public records request. (Annie Fruit/KQED)

The rookie

In late 2018, correctional officer Valentino Rodriguez walked into the ISU office for his first day on the job. Steele writes in his book that the 28-year-old was “fresh-faced and eager to overachieve.” Rodriguez had stopped by Adalberto’s Mexican Food that morning to pick up breakfast burritos for the whole team — an office tradition by which new members would gain acceptance into the squad. But as the morning wore on, the offering was ignored; to Steele this was a deliberate snub, and he’d see it as an omen of what was to come.

Officers often wait years to get tapped for the squad. Rodriguez had earned kudos as a sharp report writer and a hard worker, but he was relatively inexperienced. Some in the unit thought he’d “skipped the line,” according to officers’ later testimony in a disciplinary hearing. They began calling Rodriguez “half-patch,” suggesting he hadn’t fully earned the special black and green badge of the ISU uniform.

In contrast, Steele welcomed the new guy. In his book, he describes thanking Rodriguez for the food that first day and taking an extra burrito home “so as not to waste his act of kindness.”

The two men worked in different divisions of the squad — Steele was in Criminal Prosecution while Rodriguez had been assigned to Security and Investigations — but Steele always had a positive word for the younger officer. “You inspire me!” Steele texted him on more than one occasion. Sometimes, on the weekends, they’d carpool to law enforcement seminars where they could brush up on the latest drug interdiction tools or California’s prison gangs. And Steele became a lifeline for Rodriguez when he needed advice.

But the coldness from Rodriguez’s closest teammates soon turned to open hostility, according to KQED’s review of text messages in Rodriguez’s phone. One officer in particular, Daniel Garland, taunted him regularly. He called him “fag,” and told him to “sukadik” on a group chat. Garland did not agree to speak to KQED for this story, but his attorney said her client’s actions did not rise to the level of harassment.

Rodriguez’s direct supervisor, Sgt. David Anderson, who was on some of the text threads, did not intervene (Anderson later told investigators “I should have stepped in,” according to public documents). Rodriguez complained in a text to another officer that Anderson would bad-mouth Steele and other senior officers in front of his subordinates, and then threaten to throw Rodriguez off the squad if he said anything. Rodriguez told his fiancée, Mimy, that his supervisor once put his hands around Rodriguez’s neck and told him he could “make it look like an accident.”

Anderson, who was promoted to lieutenant in 2022, did not respond to multiple requests for comment. He told investigators that he treated Rodriguez the same as everyone else, and did not believe the young officer had been offended by what he characterized as “banter.”

CDCR has a “zero tolerance” policy for discriminatory language and harassment. But in reviewing 80 cases of officer discrimination going back to 2015, KQED found that misconduct rarely led to firing, even in instances that involved unwanted touching or threatening a subordinate.

Amid the violence and chaos of a maximum security prison, where trust is essential for officers’ safety, Rodriguez didn’t feel his team had his back. He complained to a friend over text that his colleagues refused to help him with an arrest, and that they disparaged him in front of prisoners; he said that the only person he trusted was Steele.

Steele was only partially aware of what was going on with Rodriguez, but he later told investigators that he noticed his friend would duck into the bathroom nearly every day before his shift. When Steele asked if he was OK, Rodriguez confided that his stress was so intense he often had to vomit before he went into the ISU. Steele recalled Rodriguez saying, “They just never stop teasing me. They don’t ever stop.”

Despite this, Rodriguez continued to seek his colleagues’ approval — texting the group about his efforts to lose weight or a big drug bust he pulled off. Rodriguez’s father, Valentino Rodriguez Sr., told KQED he now regrets raising his son to be so eager to please and quick to forgive.

Much later, Rodriguez would tell prison leaders that — from small things like playing video games on duty to planting drugs and weapons on prisoners in order to claim overtime for a bust — his team had been rife with misconduct. But at the time, he said nothing of this to Steele or anyone else.

Rodriguez kept another secret, too. He had struggled with opioid addiction in college before successfully kicking the habit in rehab. Mimy said that sometime during his stint at New Folsom he relapsed. By late 2019, the relentless harassment by his peers and the everyday violence he witnessed inside the prison walls was starting to pile up.

Then, just before the Christmas holiday, a brutal murder in the prison would help tip Rodriguez past his breaking point.

It would also shake Steele’s faith in the institution.

A killing in B8

On Dec. 12, 2019, 29-year-old Luis Giovanny Aguilar sat watching television in a common area of B8, a highly restricted unit reserved for people who were considered especially violent or dangerous. Aguilar — whose prison nickname was “Raskal” — had a reputation among officers for being “mouthy.” About a week earlier, on the way out of the shower back into the unit, he had kicked an officer in the chest.

On surveillance footage leaked to KQED, Aguilar appeared unbothered as a group of officers brought two other men out of their cells and chained them to individual desks — Cody Taylor, a white man with a tattoo down his face, and Anthony Rodriguez, a heavyset Latino man with glasses.

This was supposed to be the most secure type of unit in the state. All the men had been strip-searched before stepping out of their cells. Their handcuffs were attached to a chain at their waists, and their feet were shackled together. Once seated, their ankles were also locked to the metal chairs they sat in. Overlooking the three men, a control booth officer sat behind a large window with a less lethal launcher, which fires foam rounds, and a deadly Mini-14 semi-automatic rifle.

As soon as the officers filed out of the room, Taylor and Anthony Rodriguez got to work on their cuffs with tiny metal tools they had smuggled past the guards. They quickly escaped their restraints, headed up the stairs and retrieved makeshift weapons from beneath a cell door. Then they ran back down the stairs and attacked Aguilar, stabbing his upper chest, torso and head.

The assault lasted more than a minute. The control booth officer fired a few foam rounds, one of which hit Taylor, but the projectiles did not stop the attack. By the time officers entered the unit with guns drawn, Aguilar was unresponsive on the floor. He was taken to the on-site medical unit where he was pronounced dead.

That same day, another incarcerated man in the unit claimed responsibility for the murder. Self-described prison gang “shot-caller” Dion Green told investigators he’d ordered Anthony Rodriguez and Taylor to kill Aguilar because it was gang “business,” and passed them the weapons under the door.

After the incident, Steele and Officer Rodriguez both had roles to play. Steele’s job was to help facilitate the prosecution of the three men. With Green’s confession and the whole thing caught on surveillance video, it appeared to be a straightforward case.

But something about the murder didn’t sit right with Steele. In his book, he describes poring over the video footage “from start to finish innumerable times” to try to understand how it had happened. Given the extensive security protocols in B8, this kind of attack should not have been possible.

Rodriguez, meanwhile, was assigned to write a report explaining the gang connections of the murder, and to attend the autopsy, which was gruesome. “Skull was full of blood,” he wrote in an update to Steele in which he detailed more than 50 stab wounds to Aguilar’s back, head and heart.

Rodriguez had seen violence and death before, but the images of dead bodies from this and other autopsies were getting harder to shake off.

“I don’t want to take this stuff home. It will feed the ghost,” he texted his supervisor, Anderson, in early January.

But his work had already crept into his home and relationship. Mimy was increasingly upset about the long hours Rodriguez worked at the prison, and how even after his shift he was often withdrawn, irritable or too tired to talk.

“Valentino, we’re your family,” Mimy told him. “We love you. You know, if something happens to you, that job is just gonna replace you, but we can’t replace you.”

A few weeks after the B8 murder, Rodriguez walked into Steele’s office and announced he was resigning. In his book, Steele writes that he tried to convince the young officer to stay — he had too much talent to waste — but Rodriguez was adamant.

Ultimately, the chief deputy warden convinced Rodriguez to take a leave of absence for work-related stress, according to public documents.

Rodriguez returned home that day and sat down next to Mimy on their living room couch. Even though he hadn’t quit, he told her his career as a correctional officer was over.

“This is my identity,” she remembers him saying. “I feel like I’ve given up on everything.”

Hints and allegations

Steele had little time to ruminate on his friend’s absence. As the COVID-19 pandemic slammed into all aspects of prison life in spring of 2020, Steele was tasked with helping prisoners appear in court, which now took place over Zoom. This put him in regular contact with the three men who’d been charged with Aguilar’s murder.

Steele writes in his book that on separate occasions, as they waited for court to begin or some technical glitch to be resolved, both “shot-caller” Dion Green and Cody Taylor, one of the two stabbers, dropped hints that there was more to the murder than Steele knew.

The men’s insinuations added to some troubling evidence Steele had already come across, according to his book. Just two months before the murder, the same three men had carried out an almost identical attack on another incarcerated man, nearly killing him; yet after that incident, the suspects hadn’t been put in separate housing, as CDCR protocol dictates. Given this violent history, officers should have been on high alert, yet Taylor and his co-assailant, Anthony Rodriguez, had again slipped their cuffs when they killed Aguilar.

Criminal justice reporter Sukey Lewis’ demonstration of the double-locking mechanism on the handcuffs that were generally used around the prisoners’ ankles, and how a ‘black box’ device works. (Sukey Lewis and Maha Sanad/KQED)

That was especially surprising to Steele because the men were wearing “black boxes” over their restraints — tamper-resistant hard plastic shells that cover the cuffs’ keyhole and, when applied properly, are nearly impossible to escape.

Steele also stumbled across an unusual incident while looking at archived surveillance footage: It showed Taylor loose in the B8 common room a week before the Aguilar murder, running up the stairs to retrieve something from beneath Green’s cell door. As Steele watched the video, he waited for officers to sound the alarm or enter the unit, but they didn’t. He notes in his book that this apparent “practice-run” wasn’t reported or documented.

In June, Taylor, who’d already pleaded guilty to the murder, sent a letter to the warden making a stunning claim: Officers had played a role in the killing. Steele was assigned to follow up. In a recording of that interview, which was leaked to KQED, Taylor told Steele that B8 officers had agreed not to fully lock his and Anthony Rodriguez’s cuffs, allowing the men to circumvent the tamper-proof black boxes, and to instruct the control booth officer not to use deadly force. In Taylor’s telling, officers facilitated the attack on Aguilar because he had assaulted one of their own.

Sgt. Kevin Steele interviewed Cody Taylor on July 3, 2020, about his allegations that officers enabled the murder of Luis Giovanny Aguilar. This video was edited from CDCR footage that was leaked to KQED. (Annie Fruit/KQED)

While Anthony Rodriguez did not agree to speak to Steele, Green did. In a recorded interview that was leaked to KQED, Green echoed Taylor’s allegations.

“[Aguilar] would be alive today if it wasn’t for the assistance and
the help of your staff,” Green told Steele.

CDCR stated that it is “working with outside law enforcement agencies on this case” and could not comment. In court filings, attorneys for CDCR staff members have denied allegations that officers were involved in the killing. An FBI agent said in a phone call last year that they were investigating the case, but a spokesperson declined to officially confirm or deny the agency’s involvement.

Steele shared Taylor and Green’s allegations with New Folsom’s warden, Jeff Lynch, with the chief deputy warden, and with his own supervisor, according to correspondence that was leaked to KQED and obtained through public records requests. Steele also sent the videos of his interviews and suggested giving Taylor and Green polygraph tests. The warden thanked Steele and told him New Folsom’s internal affairs lieutenant, Brandon Strohmaier, “will be chatting with you.”

At some point, prison administrators forwarded these allegations to CDCR’s Office of Internal Affairs in Sacramento, and to the FBI, which looks into allegations of civil rights abuses by law enforcement.

But months passed, and Steele saw few signs that anyone had picked up the threads of his investigation. No one else came to interview Taylor or Green, and it appears no one followed up on Steele’s suggestion to polygraph them, according to documents, interviews with the men themselves and confidential sources familiar with the investigation. Early on, a handful of officers who were on duty the day of the murder were reassigned to the mailroom, but they weren’t suspended or banned from the facility (a way to limit officers’ access to the prison while they’re under criminal suspicion).

CDCR’s Office of Internal Affairs often moves slowly, but emails obtained by KQED show this case was uniquely delayed, and a special agent was not assigned until a year after the murder, according to a report by the inspector general of prisons.

Meanwhile, Steele started to feel the blowback for digging into the case. In his book, he describes being excluded from conversations in the ISU, and how, in the solitary unit where Taylor and Green were being held, officers who’d formerly been helpful began to display “agitation and unrest.”

Perhaps most disturbing to Steele was that Green’s and Taylor’s allegations, which he’d passed up the chain of command in confidence, began circulating among prisoners — a sign, he thought, that his fellow officers were trying to undermine his work and endanger Taylor and Green.

“There is a leak coming from someone,” Steele wrote in a follow-up email to the warden. This time, Lynch’s response was even more laconic: “Thank u.”

Superhero

While on leave, Valentino Rodriguez had been working for his dad at the family pool business, writing bids for installation and repair. Even though he was still a correctional officer on paper, he was trying to leave the world of the prison behind. But the long-term effects of his years at New Folsom persisted. He wrestled with mounting depression and anxiety. He sought help from a therapist, but had trouble sharing his struggles with those closest to him.

One afternoon that summer, Steele called. Rodriguez was at his dad’s house for a barbecue, and his father remembers that he disappeared for a couple of hours. He came back saying Steele had uncovered evidence that officers had a hand in the Aguilar murder, and that Steele had reported it up the chain.

“They’re starting to treat him like they treated me,” Rodriguez Sr. remembers his son telling him. “He’s scared.”

Steele had also been encouraging Rodriguez to report the misconduct he’d witnessed, according to Mimy. But Rodriguez was nervous about what would happen to him and his family if he came forward.

Mimy said her fiancé became increasingly fearful and reluctant to leave the house even to walk their dogs. He placed obstacles next to the front door so he could hear anyone trying to get in. He slept with his gun.

“Is everything okay?” Mimy remembers asking him. “Who are you nervous about coming? What is going on?” Rodriguez never said.

Mimy tried to distract him with planning their upcoming wedding. She felt if they could just get through this year, they’d be able to put New Folsom behind them and start a family.

But a few weeks before the ceremony, Rodriguez started a casual text conversation with Strohmaier, the ISU’s internal affairs lieutenant, about his upcoming marriage and other personal matters. Then Rodriguez let loose with a series of long texts describing his misery in the squad.

“That team is broken,” he wrote. “There is shit they do, say, or don’t do that could cause everyone from the Warden down to get the boot.”

It’s not clear why Rodriguez chose this moment to share his grievances with the person who fielded internal complaints at New Folsom, but Strohmaier eventually forwarded the messages to the warden, who asked Rodriguez to come talk to him.

Twelve days after his wedding, Rodriguez walked back through the gates of New Folsom to expose the brotherhood of officers he’d once protected.

Warden Jeff Lynch would later testify that in this meeting, Rodriguez told him the ISU was a “dysfunctional environment” that had driven him from the job and ruined his health. He also warned Lynch that he’d seen ISU officers — the institution’s police — breaking the law by planting drugs and weapons to get overtime. Lynch testified that he’d listened intently, and then asked him to write up his allegations in a formal memo. Rodriguez said he’d think about it.

Mimy said that when her new husband came home, he looked like a weight had been lifted. “He felt confident that the warden was going to help,” she said.

The following week, while Lynch was still waiting for Rodriguez’s memo, he ordered a search of the ISU for the contraband Rodriguez had mentioned. According to Lynch’s testimony, the search didn’t turn up anything concerning. But it did have an effect — now, the whole team knew someone had talked.

Steele texted Rodriguez the next day to show his support: “I appreciate, admire and respect you!”

“I just hope that i am not mentioned at all to anyone,”
Rodriguez texted back. “It took a lot out of me to re-live the truth…So much pain and fear.”

“Dude you are my superhero,” Steele responded. “Stay strong! I got you.”

But Rodriguez was already spiraling. That evening, while Mimy was at dinner with friends, Rodriguez texted her to say he’d heard from two people at New Folsom who knew about his meeting with the warden.

“Which means it’s out now that i told on the team,” he wrote. “Tomorrow they want me to write a memo and i don’t know what ima do.”

When Mimy got home an hour later, she saw a light coming from the guest bathroom. There she found her husband of 19 days slumped against the wall.

“It’s his job,” she told a responding police officer. “This is all because of his job.”

The coroner’s report notes that drug paraphernalia was next to Rodriguez’s body and classifies his death as an accident. The report also describes the scene — a wedding photo of Rodriguez and Mimy on the mantle and a stack of gifts in the corner.

Steele found out about Rodriguez’s death through social media reports.

In his book, Steele compares Rodriguez to the New Testament figure Timothy, who was beaten to death by a pagan mob after speaking out against them. “In many ways,” he wrote, “young Valentino, like Timothy, would remain courageous and committed to the truth all the way till the end.”

Flight and fight

The memorial mass was held under a large oak tree at the Catholic grammar school in West Sacramento. Valentino Rodriguez Sr., weighed down by grief, noticed a trim man with piercing blue eyes making his way forward through the receiving line. While he’d heard a lot about Steele, this was the first time they’d met in person. As Rodriguez Sr. remembers, Steele grabbed his shoulders and said, “If you need me for anything, I can help you.”

Back at the prison that day, Steele taped pictures of Rodriguez up in the window of his office. He wanted the officers who’d harassed his friend to know he held them responsible, Steele later told Rodriguez’s father. The squad, in turn, shunned Steele and went so far as to file a complaint against him, which didn’t go anywhere, according to public records.

Warden Lynch sent out an email forbidding anyone in the ISU from speaking to the Rodriguez family. Even though the move could have been preventive — in the event of an investigation into the harassment of Rodriguez, CDCR policy would not allow staff to talk about the case — Steele saw the directive as an attempt at self-protection. Adding to Steele’s disappointment, the warden never called Rodriguez’s family to offer condolences.

So when Rodriguez Sr., heartbroken and craving answers, reached out to Steele with texts and photos of his son as a boy, Steele wrote back. The two men began texting and talking on the phone nearly every day — discovering their shared Christian faith, their love for antique cars and their sorrow over the loss of Rodriguez.

Rodriguez Sr. drew a direct line between his son’s overdose and New Folsom. In one of their telephone conversations, he even asked Steele if someone at the prison could have provided the fentanyl that killed him (KQED found no evidence to substantiate his concern). Steele urged Rodriguez Sr. to file a complaint with CDCR’s Office of Internal Affairs and gave him a contact at the FBI.

While Steele told Rodriguez Sr. he could trust those agencies to do the right thing, his book reveals that he had his doubts. Years earlier, the Ronnie Price case had taught him that officers were capable of conspiracy and silence. The apathy he perceived in the wake of Aguilar’s homicide now appeared to be evidence of a dark and willful blindness. And the warden’s apparent focus on damage control rather than human suffering following a young officer’s death broke something inside him. Steele wondered if there were any limits to the corruption he felt closing in around him.

Lili said that, though he tried to hide it from her, her husband was afraid. “He literally would open up the door and look around the corner,” she said.

Steele wasn’t the first whistleblower to feel like he had a target on his back. Over the years, officers who have reported misconduct have found “rat” written on their windshield, received threatening phone calls, been left with no backup in dangerous situations and even been followed home at night.

Steele had come forward internally, but he’d also been in touch with the FBI, according to text messages given to KQED. He’d passed along evidence he’d gathered regarding Aguilar’s murder and shared his suspicions that officers were somehow culpable. Steele believed that without him, any potential federal investigation would have few witnesses. Steele told Rodriguez Sr. that he had no idea how far CDCR would go to keep him quiet.

And so, Steele crafted an exit strategy. In January, he and Lili packed up their belongings and moved across the country to Miller County, Missouri, where Steele had spent time in the Air Force. His plan was to run through his vacation and sick days and then retire.

But Steele couldn’t resist firing off a couple of parting shots at New Folsom’s warden and CDCR — two incendiary memos alleging in detail the mistreatment of incarcerated people and officers’ role in the Aguilar murder. He included Rodriguez’s claims about ISU misconduct, and questioned Warden Lynch’s actions as a leader.

Addressing Lynch directly, he wrote: “You should consider the very likely possibility that during YOUR superintendence of [New Folsom], more staff will be charged for criminal activity than any other institution within the state.”

A month after Steele had left the state, a notice, which was leaked to KQED, was posted at the front gate of New Folsom: Sgt. Kevin Steele was banned from prison grounds. While he had no plans to return, it stung.

“He was crushed,” Lili remembers. Steele told her, “I would have died for that department.”

Steele had trouble adapting to his new life in the Ozarks. He applied for a couple jobs and interviewed well, but didn’t get them. Lili said he suspected someone at the prison had somehow interfered, though as far as she knew, prison officials still thought they were in California.

Steele still woke up before 4 a.m., but now he had nowhere to go.

‘My Thoughts’

On March 15, 2021, Steele sent Rodriguez Sr. a link to a Buzzfeed article about a correctional officer at High Desert State Prison in Northern California who had reported misconduct, only to find his colleagues turning on him. The officer was found dead by apparent suicide in 2011. Among some notes with messages for his family was one that read, “I told the truth.”

The actual number of suicides among CDCR’s 30,000 officers is unknown; the agency said it doesn’t track those deaths out of respect for employees’ privacy. But KQED has been able to confirm that at least 30 officers who had worked for CDCR died by suicide from 2020 through 2023. Steele dealt with this firsthand; he’d counseled an officer who was struggling with thoughts of suicide and even interrupted a prison employee trying to asphyxiate themselves in a garage.

In response to a 2017 UC Berkeley survey of CDCR officers, 1 in 10 said they had suicidal thoughts. That’s more than twice the national average reported by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. A CDCR spokesperson wrote in an email that the department is “committed to promoting the mental health and wellbeing” of its employees, who have access to a number of interventions and services including chaplains and therapists.

Steele did speak to a chaplain, but, like a lot of officers, he was wary of mental health professionals, fearing that if he sought help the institution would use it against him. Instead, Lili said, her husband “self-medicated” with alcohol to get to sleep at night.

In April of 2021, Steele got some news that buoyed his spirits. Daniel Garland, one of the officers who’d mistreated Rodriguez, had been banned from the institution.

At the time, it seemed to Rodriguez Sr. and Steele that their efforts to hold someone accountable for Rodriguez’s death were finally starting to bear fruit. They expected to see more repercussions for everyone who’d harassed Rodriguez, or known about it and done nothing.

“Justice is beginning to simmer!” Steele texted Rodriguez Sr.

But four months later, on Aug. 20, 2021, Steele called up Rodriguez Sr. in a rage. He’d just received a call from CDCR’s Office of Internal Affairs to schedule an interview about the Aguilar murder.

It had been 20 months since Aguilar was killed, over a year since Steele passed on evidence that officers might be involved, and eight months since Steele sent his explosive memo to the warden.

Rodriguez Sr. remembers Steele venting: “Why are they just wrapping this up? All of a sudden they’re in a hurry?”

Less than an hour later, a home security camera captured Steele walking out of his open garage. The footage, obtained by KQED through a public records request, shows him crossing the driveway toward his shed at 5:23 p.m. dressed in an orange T-shirt and shorts. He’s holding one end of a blue nylon rope in his hand. The other end of the rope is looped around his neck. He reaches the shed door and passes out of view.

The next day, Lili found a document on the home computer titled “My Thoughts.” It read, in part:

“Lili is my angel, my light and my survivor.”

In an apparent reference to the time of day that Jesus died on the cross, he wrote, “I know what time it is … it is the 9th hour and no one is here.”

“CDCR killed me, I told the truth and shielded the truth… These barbarians killed Valentino and I.”

The letter included a list of names of CDCR officials he held responsible for his and his friend’s deaths. Under the list were the note’s final three words: “Cowards and Bandits!”

Aftermath

Shortly after Steele’s death, CDCR internal affairs agents finally conducted their first interviews with the officers who had been implicated in the death of Luis Giovanny Aguilar — nearly two years after his murder. They never interviewed Green, the shot caller, or the men who stabbed Aguilar, according to a confidential source familiar with the investigation.

The Office of the Inspector General (OIG), a state-level prison watchdog, rated the department’s handling of the case “poor.” In a report, the OIG faulted the agency for “unnecessary” delays and poor interview techniques “that failed to elicit the details of each officers’ involvement and knowledge of events and failed to ask follow-up questions.”

The report shows that CDCR ultimately sustained allegations that one officer failed to respond to alarms the day Aguilar was stabbed. The officer in the control booth was disciplined for not having his Mini-14 rifle on him during the attack. Each got a temporary 5% pay cut. A third officer was given the heaviest punishment, a temporary 10% pay cut, for recording the murder footage on his phone and sharing it with a colleague.

An ongoing lawsuit filed by Aguilar’s mother against Warden Lynch and the officers in the B8 unit alleges staff either conspired to kill her son, or at the very least failed to protect him. In court filings, lawyers for CDCR have denied that prison staff were involved in the homicide. The FBI declined to comment.

Garland, along with an officer who’d used the N-word and other derogatory language in the office, was fired. Two more ISU team members were given lengthy pay cuts for calling Rodriguez half-patch and failing to report misconduct; they both work at different prisons now. (All four officers have submitted appeals to state court, which are pending.)

New Folsom remains a violent place; four incarcerated people were killed at the prison this year, three at the hands of other prisoners, and one after being restrained by officers.

Lynch is retiring this month. Jason Schultz, who worked at New Folsom from 2008 through 2020, was named acting warden in November.

Since Steele’s suicide in 2021, CDCR has made some important changes; last year, Governor Gavin Newsom introduced the “California Model” of prison management, which borrows its ethos of reintegration and emotional well-being from the Norwegian approach to incarceration. Officers at certain prisons, including New Folsom, now wear body cameras. And CDCR put in place a new process for reviewing grievances against staff, which the department says will “ensure complaints are properly, fairly and thoroughly reviewed.”

Yet, despite months of KQED’s attempts to get answers, no one from the agency would address the underlying question raised by the deaths of Steele and Rodriguez: How successful can any reforms be if officers remain afraid to report misconduct, and if the few who come forward risk being marginalized and ignored?

‘Uncontestable’

When a person in state custody takes their own life, an independent panel reviews the circumstances and makes a determination about how it could have been prevented. But there is no such accounting of the circumstances surrounding officer suicides. In a 2023 interview, Stephen Walker, who advocates for mental health resources on behalf of the correctional officers’ union, told KQED that if these deaths were happening in any other occupation, “there would be a mass public outcry calling for an investigation into what is happening and what is at the root of this many people losing their lives.”

After Rodriguez and Steele died, the state insurance fund sent each of their widows instructions on how to receive survivor benefits. There were two options: The simpler path was to sign a form stating that the men’s deaths were unrelated to their jobs. Neither woman could bring herself to sign.

The alternative was to argue that their husbands had died as a direct result of working in the prison. Initially, those claims were denied, and Lili and Mimy had to go through the painful process of documenting their husbands’ decline.

A doctor who reviewed Rodriguez’s medical records on behalf of the state found that his drug use was related to depression, anxiety and panic attacks stemming from his job at New Folsom. “This claim appears to be uncontestable,” he wrote.

Mimy Rodriguez cried when she received a letter from the state saying that her husband’s death “was the result of his employment” at New Folsom.

Lili Steele’s claim was also granted: A workers’ compensation review of Steele’s writings and an interview with Lili found that psychological strain from his job at the prison contributed to his suicide.

The claim, Lili said, was her way of saying, “I know what you people did to him.”

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If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, you can dial 988 [U.S.] to reach the National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.

This story is a collaboration between KQED, the California Reporting Project and the California Newsroom, and was made possible in part by support from The California Endowment.

Lead editor: Mark Betancourt

Data analysis: Amanda Glazer, PhD Candidate at UC Berkeley Statistics; Jeremy Sanchez Rue, Associate Professor of Practice at UC Berkeley Journalism.

Additional research by students at Berkeley Journalism’s Investigative Reporting Program: Julietta Bisharyan, Laura Fitzgerald, William Jenkins, Cayla Mihalovich, Armon Owlia, Kathleen Quinn, Elizabeth Santos, Vera Watt and Junyao Yang. Additional support from UC Berkeley Journalism’s David Barstow.