The Collapse of Oversight: How Lorain Officials Enabled Retaliation and Silenced Accountability
From porchside promises to institutional betrayal: The story of how Lorain’s leadership failed its citizens.
By Aaron Knapp, LCPU Investigative Reporter
I. Introduction
In Lorain, Ohio, the erosion of public trust didn't happen overnight. It was a gradual process, marked by a series of overlooked complaints, unaddressed misconduct, and a pervasive culture of silence among city officials. At the center of this narrative is Chief James McCann, whose tenure as Police Chief has been marred by allegations of retaliation, discrimination, and abuse of power. Yet, perhaps more concerning than the allegations themselves is the city's response—or lack thereof.
This exposé delves into the intricate web of inaction and complicity that has allowed misconduct to fester within the Lorain Police Department. It examines the roles played by key city officials, including Mayor Jack Bradley, Law Director Pat Riley, and Safety-Service Director Rey Carrion, in perpetuating a system that prioritizes self-preservation over accountability.
Through a detailed timeline and analysis of public records, internal communications, and firsthand accounts, this report seeks to shed light on the systemic failures that have compromised the integrity of Lorain's leadership. It is a call to action for transparency, accountability, and meaningful reform in a city that can no longer afford to look the other way.
II. The Public Records That Were Never Meant to Be Public
In May 2023, Chief James McCann took the unprecedented step of releasing sealed juvenile records and educational data to the public. The context was a high-profile community incident involving several minors, where the department faced backlash for how it handled a use-of-force call on West 27th Street. Rather than acknowledge the outrage or review internal tactics, McCann chose to post what he claimed was “contextual” material: photos, school attendance logs, and juvenile case details that had never been adjudicated. These records, protected under both state and federal confidentiality laws, were published on the city’s official Facebook page — available to tens of thousands of people without redaction.
What Chief McCann released may have been legal for internal review under Ohio Revised Code § 2151.14 and FERPA exceptions for law enforcement investigations. But posting it publicly, with identifying details intact, was a flagrant violation of ORC 2151.356 and related case law. These records were not only non-adjudicated — they were part of ongoing youth services cases. Federal guidelines prohibit the disclosure of educational and juvenile data without a court order or legal exception. McCann had neither. And yet, no one in Lorain’s city leadership demanded the records be taken down.
What followed was worse. After Aaron Knapp submitted formal complaints about the release — not only as a citizen but as a licensed social worker and Guardian ad Litem familiar with FERPA and juvenile law — the city didn’t investigate the data breach. Instead, the same records were then forwarded via email to third parties, including Knapp’s former employer, court officials, and even administrators at Lorain County Juvenile Court. These weren’t redacted summaries or administrative memos. These were full email chains with juvenile information and embedded hyperlinks to public files McCann himself made accessible.
The release of these emails served no legal purpose. They were not part of a subpoena or disciplinary hearing. They were, instead, part of a retaliatory campaign: a “look what he complained about” trail of documentation meant to isolate and discredit Knapp. The implications were staggering. Juvenile identities had now been weaponized — not for prosecution, but to punish an adult critic who had exposed departmental misconduct. It was state power used not for justice, but for revenge.
Carrion’s investigation did not address these facts. In his February 2024 summary letter closing the complaints, he made no mention of the records release at all. There was no analysis of whether McCann’s actions violated Ohio law, no interview with the court’s GAL program, and no referral to external review. This omission was not due to lack of information. Knapp had submitted the full email trail and cited relevant legal protections. Carrion simply omitted them from the record — and in doing so, sanitized one of the most egregious abuses of power in the case.
Even after the release of confidential information, McCann continued to argue in public and private emails that he had the right to post “contextual” material. He accused critics of hijacking social media and claimed First Amendment defenses for his own public speech — while simultaneously censoring comments on the department’s Facebook page. In one message, McCann said he was willing “to stand in front of a federal judge to defend” the record release. But no court ever reviewed it — because no official in the city would initiate the inquiry that would bring it to court.
At no point did Law Director Pat Riley issue guidance on whether the juvenile files should have been released. No advisory memo was issued. No temporary takedown was ordered. The city did not even ask for the opinion of an outside legal consultant. In essence, the same department that had shared the records was now in charge of determining whether the release had been inappropriate. This is the precise reason such cases require independent review: you cannot investigate yourself for misconduct and expect public confidence.
More damning still was the ripple effect. After McCann’s emails were forwarded, Knapp was removed from his Guardian ad Litem duties without any disciplinary hearing or cause notice. He lost contract hours at his social work job and was placed on unpaid suspension. While no official ever linked these actions to McCann’s disclosures, the timing was undeniable. Within days of the emails, Knapp was removed from youth-facing roles — not for anything he did to a client, but for criticizing the police.
The cost of McCann’s records release wasn’t just legal risk. It was the silencing of a mandated reporter and the misuse of protected files to isolate a whistleblower. In the aftermath, city officials treated the matter as an internal policy dispute rather than what it was: a calculated act of retaliation using confidential juvenile data. The consequences reverberated not just through Knapp’s career, but through the trust of every advocate who works in youth justice in Lorain County.
The public never received an apology. No youth involved in the 27th Street incident was informed their information had been disclosed. No audit of the department’s handling of sealed records was conducted. In the absence of accountability, the public was left with silence — and the understanding that if you speak out in Lorain, your job, your contracts, and your professional credibility are fair game. The city not only failed to protect confidential records — it weaponized them, and then closed the file.
III. Retaliation by Email: When a Public Office Becomes a Personal Weapon
The public might assume that if you report misconduct in Lorain, your statements are reviewed, your complaints weighed by independent officials, and your rights protected by law. But what Aaron Knapp experienced was the opposite. After filing complaints about juvenile records being unlawfully posted by Chief McCann, Knapp became the target of an escalating pattern of harassment — conducted not with arrest warrants or subpoenas, but through email. Dozens of them. Direct. Unwanted. And after a clear, documented request to stop.
Knapp’s first formal request to Chief McCann came in June 2023. After weeks of email sparring — some of it hostile, some sarcastic, and all deeply unprofessional — Knapp wrote that he no longer wished to be contacted electronically. As a professional social worker, he cited the stress, the legal implications, and the retaliatory tone of the correspondence. He asked that any future communication from the Lorain Police Department be sent through U.S. mail, as per administrative protocol. Instead of honoring that request, McCann continued to email him — and not just brief updates, but multi-paragraph rebuttals, veiled threats about lawsuits, and unsolicited legal “advice.”
These weren’t communications sent in the context of an open investigation. They were responses to criticism. Retorts to formal complaints. In several messages, McCann directly addressed Knapp’s allegations about Facebook censorship and FERPA violations, not with the neutral language of a department head, but with the voice of someone deeply personally offended. He suggested Knapp didn’t understand the Constitution. He referred him to legal counsel. And he did all of this under the official title and signature of Chief of Police.
This kind of ongoing, unwanted contact would raise concerns even in the private sector. But when it comes from the head of a law enforcement agency — someone who controls not just public communications but access to records, reports, and the city’s disciplinary infrastructure — it crosses a line. Ohio Revised Code § 2917.21 prohibits telecommunications harassment, which includes repeated, unwanted contact that serves no legitimate law enforcement purpose. The question was never whether McCann had “freedom of speech.” It was whether he was abusing his office to retaliate against a critic.
City officials were informed in real time. In August 2023, Knapp submitted a written complaint noting that McCann was continuing to email him after his written request to stop. That complaint was addressed to Rey Carrion, the mayor’s office, and Law Director Pat Riley. Yet no one intervened. There was no directive to cease contact. No third-party communication established. Instead, the city allowed the Chief of Police to continue directly engaging a citizen who had filed multiple formal complaints against him — a citizen who, notably, had already suffered employment and contract losses linked to city communications.
The content of McCann’s emails is also telling. They weren’t restrained. They included condescension, legal speculation, and efforts to goad Knapp into confrontation. At times, McCann presented himself as the injured party, claiming the department was under siege by misinformation. At other times, he warned Knapp about the dangers of “frivolous lawsuits.” In one email, he even suggested Knapp had not provided a “valid legal theory” for his complaints — as though it was McCann’s job to adjudicate the merits of allegations against himself.
There is a concept in public ethics known as the “chilling effect” — the idea that government officials, by their conduct or threats, can suppress lawful behavior like speech, advocacy, or public complaints. In this case, McCann’s repeated emails did just that. Knapp was a whistleblower trying to document a series of policy and constitutional violations. Instead of being protected, he was digitally surveilled, rebutted, and ultimately driven out of multiple professional roles by the very official he had reported.
To make matters worse, McCann used these emails to falsely frame himself as transparent. He stated in messages that he “always welcomed criticism” and was merely “clarifying misinformation.” But his actions were inherently retaliatory — because they took place outside official complaint procedures, escalated after legal filings, and defied a citizen’s clear boundary. McCann’s willingness to violate that boundary again and again was not transparency. It was targeted harassment cloaked in a badge.
Why didn’t the city step in? The answer lies in the pattern. By allowing McCann to keep control of the communication channel, city leadership sent a message: he’s allowed to handle his critics however he chooses. Even if it violates administrative norms. Even if it exposes the city to liability. Even if it silences others from speaking up. In the end, the mayor, the law director, and Carrion didn’t just fail to stop the retaliation — they facilitated it by doing nothing.
The result is a chilling case study in how unchecked power can hijack even the most mundane tool — email — to silence opposition. These weren’t automated replies. They were targeted, deliberate, and sustained. And because no one in city leadership stepped in to say “enough,” McCann got the last word not only in the inbox, but in the record — a record now documented and entered into evidence.
IV. From Facebook to Federal Court: The First Amendment Isn’t Optional
In March 2023, the Lorain Police Department quietly turned off the comments on its official Facebook page. No press release. No policy announcement. Just silence where public criticism once flowed freely. The move came just days after a controversial use-of-force video on West 27th Street went viral — drawing scrutiny from local residents and national activists alike. Instead of engaging the public or issuing a measured response, the department took the unprecedented step of shutting down one of the only remaining digital forums for civic feedback. It was an act of censorship, plain and simple.
Chief James McCann later claimed the decision was based on the “hijacking” of the page by out-of-state commenters spreading “misinformation.” But his critics weren’t bots or trolls — they were Lorain residents, local parents, and civil rights advocates demanding transparency and reform. Among them was Aaron Knapp, who filed a formal complaint alleging that the page’s shutdown violated his First Amendment rights under Davison v. Randall and Knight First Amendment Inst. v. Trump. These cases held that government social media pages constitute limited public forums — and that censoring public comment without neutral, viewpoint-neutral criteria is unconstitutional.
Knapp’s complaint was not reactive or emotional. It was legally grounded. He cited case law. He offered written recommendations. And he made it clear: this was about rights, not politics. McCann’s response? A snide email dismissing the legal theory and framing Knapp’s complaint as a nuisance. He wrote that managing the department’s social media was too “time consuming” and “dangerous,” that it was being misused by people who lacked facts, and that the department might shut the page down entirely rather than restore open commentary.
For months, McCann strung the issue along, promising either a return of comment access or a full page deletion. He did neither. Comments remained disabled, and posts continued without any ability for citizens to engage. The department selectively allowed comments on some posts — usually non-controversial or ceremonial in nature — while keeping others locked. This inconsistency only made the violation more blatant. It proved that the department was not applying a content-neutral moderation policy, but rather censoring based on topic and timing.
Knapp wrote to the mayor. He emailed the law director. He asked for a formal response. And still, no city official addressed the constitutional implications. Instead, McCann continued to respond personally, dismissing Knapp’s references to legal precedent and falsely claiming that “FOIA does not apply to state governments.” He also attempted to discredit Knapp’s professional background, questioning his education and credibility as a social worker — all in writing, under the official signature block of the Chief of Police.
What began as a complaint about censorship quickly became a case study in retaliatory speech suppression. By refusing to respond through proper channels — and instead engaging in sarcastic, ad hominem email battles — McCann turned a constitutional dispute into a personal feud. But the chilling effect wasn’t limited to Knapp. Dozens of residents saw their ability to speak on the department’s posts vanish overnight. Questions about police misconduct, officer discipline, or even policy transparency could no longer be aired in the most accessible public space the city operated.
This suppression happened in full view of Lorain’s leadership. Mayor Jack Bradley was copied on emails. Safety-Service Director Rey Carrion was informed. Law Director Pat Riley had a duty to advise the city of its constitutional obligations — yet never did. In fact, when asked for an official position, the city said nothing at all. Their silence allowed McCann’s unlawful digital blackout to continue unchecked for nearly a year, until public pressure and legal threats forced the comments to be restored.
When Knapp eventually filed a notice of intent to sue for First Amendment violations, he requested only one dollar in damages. He made clear that the point was not to profit, but to defend the rights of citizens to criticize their government. McCann, by contrast, responded by warning Knapp of the “consequences of frivolous litigation,” hinting at legal retaliation and painting himself as the true victim. These were not the words of a neutral public administrator — they were the words of a man misusing his public position to dissuade dissent.
For a brief moment, the comments were restored — but only partially, and only after months of legal threats and advocacy. Then, in a final act of administrative closure, the entire Lorain Police Department Facebook page was deleted outright. Not archived. Not preserved. Deleted. Chief McCann claimed the platform had become “too time consuming” to manage. But the deeper issue was this: by eliminating the entire history of the department’s posts, including years of comments and public engagement, the city may have violated public records retention laws under Ohio Revised Code § 149.351.
This wasn’t just a digital decision. It was a symbolic erasure of accountability. Years of interactions, criticism, and public feedback — gone. Lorain leaders allowed McCann to remove not only a platform for engagement, but a potential body of evidence. In a city struggling to restore trust in law enforcement, the deletion of a public forum to avoid scrutiny isn’t just bad policy. It’s a civic disgrace — and a quiet confession that when speech became too inconvenient, the city’s answer was to destroy the record.
V. The Mayor, the Law Director, and the Sound of Silence
At every critical juncture in this saga — from sealed juvenile records being made public, to the silencing of First Amendment speech, to the unlawful forwarding of emails to employers — one question looms: where was city leadership? Mayor Jack Bradley, Law Director Pat Riley, and other top officials were not only aware of the complaints and communications. They were direct recipients. They were CC’d on emails, named in formal filings, and personally visited or contacted by the complainant. And yet, not one of them stepped forward publicly to intervene. Their silence wasn’t neutral. It was a policy decision to protect the power structure.
Mayor Jack Bradley’s administration had the authority to suspend Chief McCann, initiate an external review, or refer the matter to state oversight bodies. He did none of these things. Instead, the mayor’s name appeared on nearly every internal rejection letter, either through carbon copies or attached correspondence. When faced with mounting pressure from constituents and advocates about police overreach, retaliation, and data breaches, Mayor Bradley chose to treat it as a political inconvenience rather than a public emergency. He offered no interviews. No comment. No call for reform.
This is particularly egregious given Bradley’s long legal and political career. He is no stranger to the boundaries of constitutional governance. He served as a municipal judge. He understood the stakes — not just in terms of public perception, but in civil liability. And yet, when faced with credible, documented complaints that McCann had retaliated against a social worker and leaked protected records, Bradley defaulted to delegation. He let the Safety-Service Director handle it. He sent no signal that misconduct would be addressed at the top.
Law Director Pat Riley fared no better. Riley, as the city’s chief legal officer, was repeatedly informed of violations of state and federal law. He received direct complaints about the release of sealed records. He was made aware that McCann had contacted an employer in apparent violation of workplace retaliation protections. He was copied on communications citing violations of Davison v. Randall, Knight First Amendment Inst. v. Trump, and multiple FERPA provisions. And yet, there is no known written record of Riley issuing a legal opinion, investigation directive, or cease communication order. For all intents and purposes, he vanished from the chain of accountability.
This legal vacuum allowed McCann to operate without constraint. When a law director refuses to advise against retaliation, unlawful disclosure, or unconstitutional suppression of speech, he is not merely abdicating responsibility — he is enabling abuse. In any properly functioning government, the law director acts as a neutral check on executive overreach. In Lorain, the law department has become a hollow formality — one that provides the appearance of oversight without the substance of it.
The Civil Service Commission, while not directly involved in criminal review, has authority over employment conditions and disciplinary procedures. Yet even they did not intervene. Despite knowing that retaliation had affected employment contracts tied to city courts and that a Guardian ad Litem was dismissed under political pressure, the commission did not issue a statement or conduct any inquiry. Like the mayor and the law director, they chose to observe from a safe distance, unwilling to confront what was becoming increasingly obvious to the public.
Taken together, these failures represent more than individual derelictions. They form a pattern — a kind of bureaucratic omertà, where silence is rewarded and action is punished. What city officials avoided with words, they permitted with inaction. McCann’s continued presence and unchecked authority were only possible because the city’s leadership chose to insulate him rather than investigate him.
It is not that they lacked cause. The evidence was overwhelming. Dozens of pages of complaints. Emails with attached juvenile records. Publicly posted Facebook censorship. Direct evidence of unwanted contact. A terminated advocacy contract. A suspended social work license under false pretenses later dismissed by the board. These were not ambiguous. They were not hearsay. They were documented, time-stamped, and delivered to their inboxes. What they lacked was will — and that is the most dangerous absence in a democratic system.
This silence has cascading effects. Every official who failed to act has now set precedent. That precedent tells future whistleblowers not to bother. It tells officers under McCann’s command that retaliation is a survivable strategy. It tells the public that records laws can be bent, emails ignored, and speech silenced — so long as the politics are right and the allies are loyal. This isn’t just unethical. It’s corrosive to the foundation of trust every local government relies on to function.
Lorain’s mayor, law director, and civil leadership weren’t bystanders to this crisis. They were participants in its concealment. Their silence allowed the misconduct to continue and emboldened a chief who mistook criticism for mutiny. That silence must now be recognized for what it is: a governing failure, one that demands consequences not just for those who acted, but for those who chose not to.
VI. The Prosecutor’s Office: Conflict Declared, Advice Still Given
In February 2024, when Lorain Safety-Service Director Rey Carrion released his letter closing all Knapps citizen complaints against Chief James McCann, he cited a surprising source as justification: a letter from the Lorain County Prosecutor’s Office. According to Carrion, the prosecutor’s office reviewed the situation and saw no need for charges or further action. But what he failed to mention — and what was buried in the documents attached — is that the same prosecutor’s office had already declared itself conflicted in the matter.
That conflict wasn’t theoretical. On November 3, 2023, Aaron Knapp entered the prosecutor’s office and asked to speak with a prosecutor or judge about his complaints involving the police department and the juvenile court. When told no one was available, Knapp allegedly raised his voice in frustration. A deputy removed him from the lobby. Days later, Prosecutor J.D. Tomlinson’s office, through Chief of Staff James Burge, issued a formal letter stating they had a “conflict” and could not be involved in any review of Knapp’s allegations. And yet — three months later — that very office was cited as the final word on why no action should be taken against McCann.
This isn’t just a procedural error. It’s a breach of legal ethics. A conflict of interest exists when a public office has a divided loyalty — in this case, both advising the juvenile court and dealing with complaints about how that court was influenced by police communications. The prosecutor’s office had direct knowledge of McCann’s email disclosures. It had direct ties to Juvenile Court Administrator Tim Wietzel, who had received McCann’s forwarded emails about Knapp. By definition, the prosecutor’s office was a party in the matter, not a neutral observer.
But instead of recusing themselves entirely, they stepped back just long enough to avoid accountability — and then reentered the situation through the back door of Carrion’s summary letter. This created a self-reinforcing loop: the city deferred to the prosecutor’s judgment, while the prosecutor had already disqualified himself from investigating. As a result, the core issues of retaliation, records violations, and public harassment were never substantively reviewed by anyone with actual jurisdiction or independence.
This circular logic wasn't accidental — it was strategic. By pointing to the prosecutor’s office, Carrion gave his conclusion the appearance of outside validation. In reality, he was echoing the conclusions of an entity that had already washed its hands of the case. The result was bureaucratic theater: an internal cover-up dressed in the language of legal closure.
Even more concerning is that the prosecutor’s office received — and retained — many of the same records Knapp had complained about. These included emails sent by McCann that contained unredacted juvenile records and statements about Knapp’s employment and mental health. Despite this, no prosecutor ever reached out to Knapp for follow-up. No attempt was made to address the retaliation. No one questioned the ethics of a sitting police chief sending unsealed court records to a citizen’s employer.
This silence becomes even more troubling when you consider the timeline. The prosecutor’s declaration of conflict came months after McCann’s misconduct had been reported. Had city officials responded when the records were first shared in May and June 2023, the conflict never would have arisen. The only reason the prosecutor was placed in this awkward position was because city leadership — the mayor, the law director, Carrion — all refused to act when the misconduct first occurred.
And in that failure lies the blueprint for what happened next. Chief McCann didn’t just retaliate against Aaron Knapp. He went on to retaliate against Lt. Corey Middlebrooks, another whistleblower within the department. By the beginning of 2025, McCann would be placed on paid administrative leave for retaliation and policy violations in that case. But the seeds were planted months earlier, when officials allowed his retaliation against a social worker and court-appointed advocate to go unchecked.
Had the prosecutor’s office genuinely wanted to preserve its neutrality, it would have publicly reiterated its conflict when Carrion asked for a review. It would have recommended the city consult an outside counsel, or forwarded the matter to the state attorney general’s office. It did not. Instead, it allowed its prior conflict letter to serve as a weapon in Carrion’s hands — one used to kill a case without actually addressing its facts.
In the end, the prosecutor’s office failed in its ethical obligation to remain neutral — not because it took a side, but because it allowed others to pretend it hadn’t. That failure reverberates now in every unresolved question: Why were confidential records sent without redaction? Why was a civilian whistleblower punished instead of protected? And why did so many legal professionals, sworn to uphold justice, choose institutional comfort over constitutional principle?
VII. A Culture of Retaliation, Not Reform
Chief James McCann’s documented pattern of retaliation didn’t begin with Lt. Corey Middlebrooks, and it didn’t end with Aaron Knapp. Instead, it reveals a consistent and dangerous culture — one where speaking out against misconduct inside or outside the Lorain Police Department became a punishable offense. Whistleblowers weren’t protected; they were profiled. Critics weren’t heard; they were targeted. Under McCann’s leadership, retaliation became an unwritten policy — enforced not through formal discipline, but through rumor, isolation, surveillance, and silence.
Aaron Knapp, a licensed social worker and Guardian ad Litem, experienced the first wave of this retaliation in spring 2023. After filing multiple complaints about the release of juvenile records, Facebook censorship, and unprofessional conduct by the Chief himself, he found himself slowly cut out of roles tied to city operations. His email was flagged. His contract was questioned. His name — and his mental health — became a topic of internal emails sent between McCann, court administrators, and at least one political appointee. Despite a clean professional record, Knapp was removed from court appointments and lost his job at a youth justice program. The retaliation was not only deliberate — it was orchestrated using the very systems that were supposed to protect whistleblowers.
Then came Lt. Middlebrooks. A respected Black officer and union leader, Middlebrooks raised concerns internally about discriminatory discipline, selective policy enforcement, and racial bias in departmental leadership. Instead of receiving support or even a fair hearing, he became the subject of what an independent investigation would later describe as targeted discipline. McCann stripped him of command responsibilities, changed his work location, and opened sustained internal investigations against him. Eventually, Middlebrooks was fired. But unlike Knapp, he had the support of the union — and he fought back.
By early 2025, after Middlebrooks had filed formal complaints and union grievances, the city quietly placed Chief McCann on paid administrative leave for policy violations and retaliation. This was the very same pattern Knapp had documented the year before. And yet, when Knapp had brought it forward, city officials dismissed it. When Middlebrooks — a uniformed officer — made the same allegations, only then did the city act. The message was clear: only certain voices count, and even then, only when the liability becomes too large to ignore.
Before Aaron Knapp or Lt. Middlebrooks raised their voices, the city had already received warnings about McCann’s conduct. In 2021, a complaint by Officer Kyle Gelenius accused McCann of mocking him with homophobic slurs, referring to him as “Gay Lenus” in front of colleagues. An internal investigation substantiated the claim, and McCann was ordered to undergo sensitivity training. But no public action was taken. McCann remained in command — with the full support of Mayor Jack Bradley. In 2025, another scandal erupted when McCann demanded Mercy Health perform a cavity search on a suspect. When medical staff refused on ethical grounds, McCann allegedly threatened to withdraw police coverage. The city settled the resulting lawsuit for more than $50,000 in public funds. Again, McCann faced no consequences. These incidents showed a clear pattern: unethical, abusive behavior met not with accountability, but insulation.
This culture of retaliation was no accident. It was protected by silence. When McCann went after Knapp, city officials claimed it was a personal dispute. When McCann targeted Middlebrooks, they said it was a personnel matter. At every step, they used procedural language to obscure what was happening: the systematic weaponization of city institutions to harm dissenters. And the longer they waited, the worse it got. What could have been addressed as misconduct in early 2023 became, by 2024, a full-blown scandal — one that cost McCann his leadership post and the city its credibility.
McCann’s retaliation wasn’t a matter of opinion — it was corroborated by his own officers. In a confidential internal affairs interview, Officer Miguel Baez reported that McCann berated him in a private meeting, saying “you failed me” after Baez didn’t participate in retaliatory actions against a colleague. Baez was later sidelined from assignments. Other officers interviewed in the IA investigation described McCann’s leadership style as punitive, vindictive, and deeply personal. Former Captain Reiber, Lieutenant Thompson, and at least five other department members documented patterns of favoritism, race-based double standards, and policy weaponization. Their statements show that retaliation wasn’t just tolerated — it was institutionalized.
What’s more disturbing is how many other officers remained silent. Some out of fear. Some out of loyalty. Some because they knew that stepping out of line meant facing the same kind of scrutiny Knapp and Middlebrooks endured. Even those who tried to raise internal concerns — including other officers cited in the Middlebrooks report — faced career consequences. Transfers. Investigations. Blackballing. The department became a place where survival depended on compliance, not character.
This culture also extended to civilians. Community advocates who questioned department policies were ignored or stonewalled. Public records requests were delayed or denied under flimsy pretexts. Even members of the media found themselves frozen out or mocked in internal communications. At one point, McCann forwarded emails about Knapp’s press inquiries to outside figures in an apparent effort to undermine him. This wasn’t just retaliation — it was a concerted effort to poison the well around any perceived critic.
The question now isn’t whether McCann retaliated. The evidence is overwhelming. The question is why it took so long for the city to act — and how many others were quietly forced out, silenced, or discredited along the way. When leadership fails to draw a hard line against retaliation, it becomes the norm. And in Lorain, retaliation didn’t just become tolerated. It became the organizing principle of McCann’s administration.
Accountability isn’t just about punishing one man. It’s about dismantling the conditions that allowed him to thrive in the first place. That includes the legal departments, civilian commissions, mayoral offices, and court administrators who all had a chance to stop this — and didn’t. Until that system changes, retaliation will remain the rule in Lorain. And reform will remain a mirage.
VIII. A Public Cost Too High: Power, Pay, and Zero Accountability
While Chief James McCann was retaliating against whistleblowers, leaking confidential records, and suppressing public speech, he wasn’t being punished — he was being paid. In 2023, McCann’s total compensation exceeded $235,000, making him the highest-paid public employee in the City of Lorain. That figure eclipsed the mayor, the fire chief, and nearly every judge in Lorain County. The public was funding a chief under fire — not just figuratively, but legally. And the city’s leadership did nothing to stop it.
That $235,000 salary didn’t just reward administrative mismanagement. It sent a message: in Lorain, misconduct isn’t a liability — it’s a line item. At the very time McCann was forwarding sealed juvenile records, denying citizens the right to speak online, and retaliating against a Guardian ad Litem, he was also receiving pay increases, pension benefits, and full legal backing from the city. His salary soared while the city’s budget shrank — and while public trust eroded into dust.
In early 2025, the same city officials who ignored complaints about McCann’s retaliation admitted that Lorain was facing a $3.3 million budget deficit. The city auditor warned that payroll expenses were unsustainable. The general fund balance was shrinking. And yet, nearly one-third of the entire budget — over $27 million — was still being allocated to police and fire payroll, with McCann leading the financial pack. At a time when residents were complaining about crumbling roads, rising water bills, and ballooning taxes, the city was funding silence, not service.
Even after McCann was placed on paid administrative leave for retaliation against Lt. Corey Middlebrooks, his compensation didn’t stop. He continued drawing full pay — more than $6,000 per pay period — while the city refused to say publicly why he was gone. It wasn’t until a local investigative article exposed the issue that the city formally acknowledged his removal. The revelation didn’t come from a press release. It came from pressure — and from citizens demanding answers the administration had long withheld.
Residents began noticing the disparity. During the city council’s 2025 budget hearings, citizen Jayne Morales voiced what many had felt for years: “We are in a huge deficit, and they’re acting like nothing’s wrong.”
Morales, a long-time homeowner, pointed out that city salaries — including McCann’s — were ballooning while services deteriorated. “They didn’t earn these raises,” she said. “They hire family. They protect each other. We pay for all of it.”
Morales wasn’t alone. Tia Hilton, a well-known civil advocate, said it best: “You're tearing everything your grandparents built as a legacy. You're tearing it down by allowing this to happen.” She wasn’t just referring to payroll waste. She was speaking to the moral decay of a government that enriches abusers while punishing truth-tellers. That decay is now reflected in every pothole, every late trash pickup, and every unresolved public records request.
Councilman Dan Nutt admitted publicly that McCann’s salary “might be high” (Ya Think??) compared to other cities. But by that point, it didn’t matter. McCann had already presided over the release of confidential juvenile data, the suppression of constitutional speech, the harassment of a court-appointed advocate, and the firing of a Black union leader — all without consequence. Lorain paid him more than any governor in the region. The real question is: what were they paying for?
The damage wasn’t limited to dollars. It bled into morale, recruitment, and public engagement. Multiple officers left the department citing McCann’s leadership. Public forums were sparsely attended because residents felt speaking out would accomplish nothing. Advocacy groups reported hesitancy among families to report issues — especially those from marginalized communities. The cost of McCann’s reign wasn’t just financial. It was democratic.
Worse still, no one in city leadership proposed clawing back funds or freezing McCann’s compensation while he was under investigation. There was no motion to audit his spending. No demand to suspend his pay. Even after a confirmed finding of policy violations, the only thing the city suspended was accountability. McCann’s paycheck kept clearing while whistleblowers like Knapp were left without work, reputation, or recourse.
In the end, Lorain paid Chief James McCann more than any other public official — and in return, they got lawsuits, censorship, and scandal. When officials refuse to link pay to performance, and when silence is valued more than service, the public is left footing the bill for its own disenfranchisement. The cost of McCann’s tenure wasn’t just a budget line — it was a civic tragedy, bought and paid for with your money.
IX. Voices That Were Silenced: The Human Cost of Corruption
Behind every administrative decision, every closed-door meeting, and every official letter that shielded Chief James McCann, there were real people — community members, professionals, and public servants — who were silenced, punished, or erased. This exposé has shown how Lorain's power structure worked to protect one man at the expense of its own integrity. But to understand the full weight of that failure, we must confront what it cost the people who dared to speak up.
Aaron Knapp didn’t start as a dissident. He was a licensed social worker, a Guardian ad Litem, and a citizen engaged in advocacy for transparency and youth justice. He served the courts. He volunteered in the community. And for a time, he believed the system could correct itself. That belief was shattered the moment he began filing formal complaints against Chief McCann. Instead of investigating his claims, the city allowed McCann to contact his employer, forward sealed juvenile records, and frame Knapp’s complaints as personal vendettas. No due process. No protection. Just silence — followed by consequences.
Knapp wasn’t the only one. Lt. Corey Middlebrooks, a Black officer and union member and active participant, lost his job after raising internal concerns about racial bias, policy double standards, and retaliatory discipline. Though he ultimately succeeded in forcing the city to place McCann on leave, the cost to his career, mental health, and reputation cannot be understated. He was labeled disloyal. Sidelined. Investigated. Then fired. All for calling out what half the department knew but few dared to say.
And then there were the officers who did speak up — but whose names never made headlines. Officer Miguel Baez testified during the internal affairs investigation that McCann had pressured him to retaliate against a colleague. When Baez refused, McCann told him, “You failed me.” Baez was never the same in the department after that. Other officers — including former Captain Reiber and Lieutenant Thompson — documented patterns of policy manipulation, favoritism, and racialized retaliation. But they too were marginalized or ignored. The city had a clear picture of McCann’s abuse of power. It simply chose to look away.
There’s also the silent collateral — the clients and youth whose services were disrupted. When Knapp was pushed out of his juvenile justice role, there were no community briefings, no continuity plans, no recognition of the impact on the court-referred youth he was helping. Guardians ad Litem don’t just provide oversight. They often serve as the only adult a child in crisis can trust. By retaliating against Knapp, the city didn’t just punish a professional — it destabilized care for children under court supervision.
Whistleblowers often pay with their livelihoods, but in Lorain, the retaliation was engineered to be isolating and personal. Knapp was flagged as mentally unstable. Middlebrooks was painted as insubordinate. Each was made to appear erratic, disloyal, or disruptive — precisely the kind of narrative that allows leadership to claim “no retaliation occurred.” But these weren't isolated misinterpretations. They were part of a deliberate strategy to discredit and destroy. It was the same script, repeated again and again.
Some of the voices silenced weren’t public at all. Community members who commented on Facebook posts had their input deleted. Residents who filed records requests received form-letter denials. One citizen was threatened with legal action for protesting outside a city event. These weren’t disruptions. They were expressions of democratic concern — met with censorship, avoidance, and threats. The chilling effect has already set in.
What makes the silence even more painful is that many of the people who were harmed still believed, at least for a while, that justice might be possible. They met with elected officials. They followed proper channels. They documented everything. They asked for a fair process. And instead, they were met with doors closed in their faces, polite delays, and condescending replies. When a government punishes the people trying to hold it accountable, it teaches future generations that participation is a liability.
This isn’t just about one chief. It’s about a system that turned retaliation into routine governance. The officers who kept their heads down learned that loyalty matters more than law. The officials who ignored red flags learned that silence is safer than leadership. And the community learned that justice — in Lorain — depends on whether your complaint embarrasses the right people.
Voices were silenced. Reputations were damaged. Lives were disrupted. And for what? So one man could continue calling the shots — even while under investigation, even while on paid leave, even while costing the city hundreds of thousands of dollars. The people of Lorain deserve better. But before change can happen, the city must face what it allowed to happen. The truth is in the record. The names are known. The voices may have been silenced, but the evidence speaks loud enough for all of them.
Final Thought: The Record Exists Because They Tried to Bury It
Lorain’s leadership didn’t just fail to stop misconduct — it engineered the machinery that allowed it to continue. They dismissed early warnings. They closed internal complaints without reading the evidence. They let one official, Chief James McCann, retaliate against whistleblowers, leak confidential information, and use his office like a weapon — all while being the highest-paid employee in city government.
They didn’t act when Aaron Knapp’s professional reputation was destroyed. They didn’t act when Lt. Corey Middlebrooks, a decorated Black officer, was pushed out for raising concerns about racial bias. They didn’t act when sealed juvenile records were released to the public. They didn’t act when First Amendment rights were trampled on social media. They didn’t act until the misconduct made the news — and by then, the damage had already been done.
What they didn’t count on was someone keeping a record. Every email. Every retaliation. Every quiet denial from a law director or a mayor pretending not to see. This exposé exists not because the system worked — but because someone documented what happened when it didn’t (Hint, it was me, Social Workers, we document EVERYTHING). And in Lorain, it didn’t work at all.
Citizens aren’t asking for perfection. They’re asking for honesty, for transparency, and for leaders who care more about justice than public relations. What they’ve received instead is bureaucratic loyalty, silent council chambers, and a police department run like a personal fiefdom. When every oversight body becomes part of the cover-up, democracy breaks down — and the people pay for it in lost rights, lost trust, and lost futures.
This story is not over. It continues every time a city employee is punished for speaking up. Every time a record is denied under a false exemption. Every time a professional is pushed out for refusing to go along. The culture that protected McCann is still intact — unless the people tear it down, root by root, name by name.
If there’s one lesson here, it’s that retaliation thrives in darkness — but with enough light, even the most buried truth becomes undeniable. That light now shines on the City of Lorain. What it does next will define not only its leadership, but its legacy.
The silence ends here. The record stands.
Disclaimer
This investigative report is based on verified public records, sworn statements, internal city documents, direct correspondence, and firsthand accounts provided by individuals with knowledge of the events described. Every effort has been made to ensure factual accuracy at the time of publication. Allegations of misconduct are supported by documentation, testimony, or internal findings unless otherwise noted.
The opinions expressed herein are those of the author in their role as a journalist and advocate for transparency and accountability. This report is intended for public awareness, civic engagement, and lawful reform. It is not intended to incite harassment or harm against any individual. Any errors brought to the attention of the author will be reviewed and corrected promptly in accordance with journalistic standards.
This publication is protected by the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.