When Black Americans Hang from Trees, the Rest of Us Have a Responsibility to Demand Answers and Justice for their Deaths
By Mary-Elizabeth Meagher, written for Mesa Valley Indivisible
maryelizabethmeagher.substack.com
Dennoris Richardson. 39 years old. Sheffield, Alabama.
Javion McGee. 21 years old. Henderson, North Carolina.
Earl Smith. 58 years old. Albany, New York.
Demartravion Reed. 21 years old. Cleveland, Mississippi.
Torrance Medley. 39 years old. Brookfield, Wisconsin.
Kyle Bassinga. 21 years old. Marietta, Georgia.
Juliana Umba Ntzia. 16 years old. Charlotte, North Carolina.
Jerard Jackson. 28 years old. Rothbury, Michigan.
Tasia Fortune. 29 years old. Jackson, Mississippi.
Name yet-to-be-released. 32 years old. Raleigh, North Carolina.
Demetrius Fleming. 38 years old. Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina
Ten human beings. Someone’s son, daughter, brother, sister, child, neighbor, coworker, or friend. These ten folks came from various communities and backgrounds across the U.S., but they all share a disturbing common thread—one you might not hear national media outlets bother to talk about, aside from a few cursory sentences.
Each of these names belong to a Black person who was hanged from a tree (or a carport in the case of Dennoris Richardson) between 2024 and 2026. Read that again. We are not referring to the Jim Crow Era—their deaths took place within the last two years. Tasia Fortune’s body was recovered on August 3, 2026, while another man (whose identity has not been shared with the public yet) was found as recently as August 15, 2026.
There is nothing historic about this trend. It’s occurring in the present—habitually, consistently, repetitively—and more often than not, without answers for the victims’ family members. But despite obvious context clues, showing that each death in question follows a suspiciously distinctive pattern of lynching, both medical examiners and law enforcement agencies have been quick to rule most of these cases as suicides.
To be clear, this strategy is intentional.
“The moment a case is ruled a suicide, it’s no longer investigated as a homicide,” points out civil rights attorney Jill Collen Jefferson. In other words: Close the file. Stash it in a cabinet. Offer the family a hollow explanation, then move onto the next order of business.
However, family members aren’t buying this suicide pretense—and neither is Jefferson, whose human rights nonprofit JULIAN tracked more than 70 lynching incidents in the American South from 2000–2025. Jefferson compiled her research into a 2026 report titled, “A Crimson Record,” in which she traces a clear, not-so-mysterious throughline.
Whether the circumstances that surround these lynchings seem to be motivated by race, gender, or anti-LGBTQIA bias, law enforcement has ruled the majority of them suicides. This becomes even more dubious when you account for the finding that 23 cases in Jefferson’s report involve contact with police or correctional officers.
Almost all of these cases received the same inattention to detail in the investigation process as well. Here are just a few troubling patterns the research identifies:
Procedural haste, neglect, or inferior detective work
Lack of psychological autopsies to determine a victim’s mental state
Compromised crime scenes or withholding of evidence
Premature conclusions released without a sufficient probable cause
It’s also worth noting: The suicide excuse is not a new tactic—it dates back almost a century. In the 1930s, law enforcement agencies, coroners, and reporters would frequently use terms like, “death by suicide, no foul play suspected,” as blatant cover-ups for the lynching of Black bodies from trees, schoolyards, jailhouses, or bridges.
There is a playbook for hate, and it’s still being employed.
Of course, none of this data makes the assumption that Black Americans never die by suicide. But their collective suicide rates are much lower than forensic medical examinations might lead you to believe. A recent study from the nonpartisan Trust for America’s Health found that 8.7 out of every 100,000 Black Americans die by suicide.
Compare this number to 22.5 out of every 100,000 Indigenous Americans and 17.2 out of every 100,000 White Americans. Now let’s continue on with that theme. Another report looked at the violent deaths of Black residents in North Carolina from 2014–2023. Of those 6,397 fatalities, 1,453 (less than 23%) were suicides. Among the deaths that were a result of suicide, only 21% of Black men and 25% of Black women hanged themselves.
And not from trees. Not from a tree branch so high that an adult man was unable to reach it—let alone a 16-year-old girl—as in the case of Juliana Ntzia.
When the data simply isn’t consistent with police narratives, we as a community must hold them accountable. When those with the power and resources to unearth real, concrete answers shirk their responsibilities, we must ask tireless questions to uncover the truth. When mainstream news outlets spare occasional, nominal coverage for a horrific trend of violence that should be a front-page headline, we must amplify their stories with our own voices.
When a nation refuses to atone for and learn from its previous injustices, history won’t remain in the past. Those same horrors and atrocities will keep being inflicted in our current generation. So it’s time to make ourselves heard with the following steps.
Say Their Names. Get loud for these victims and their families in your own spheres of influence. Post about them on social media. Talk about them in offline circles. We can all use our platforms (no matter how large or small) to remember their names, honor their lives, and ensure their stories remain in the public discourse.
Donate to Their Loved Ones. The family of Tasia Fortune, whose recent death is still under investigation, has set up a GoFundMe campaign in her memory. We know the economic landscape is tough, but if you have the means and feel inclined to contribute, this is a tangible way to help those mourning her loss.
Support Justice Work. Many organizations—such as JULIAN, Southern Poverty Law Center, Color of Change, and NAACP—are on the frontlines of seeking justice for hate crimes, dismantling white supremacy, and pursuing a future where civil rights are the norm for everyone in the United States. You can donate to their causes, subscribe to their newsletters, and visit their websites for more action steps.
Tell Your Reps to Take a Stand. Our elected officials have a sworn duty to act in the best interest of all Americans, and as their constituents, we can implore them not to be neutral or silent toward racial injustice. Lawmakers in Congress need to hear from us on this issue, so contact your senators and representatives. Urge them to call for thorough, transparent investigations into the suspicious deaths of Black men, women, and children across our country. View the actions you can take along with contact information and scripts.
Contact Law Enforcement. While some of these cases have been closed, others are open. The deaths of Kyle Bassinga, Juliana Ntzia, Jerard Jackson, Tasia Fortune, and the man whose name is unreleased all took place in 2026. Below are law enforcement departments who have the jurisdiction and responsibility to investigate these deaths in a manner that reflects true public safety. Reach out to these agencies and tell them you expect the facts to come out, and meaningful justice to be served.
Cobb County Police Department: 770-499-3900 (for Kyle Bassinga)
Mecklenburg County Police Department: 704-336-7600 (for Juliana Ntizia)
Oceana County Police Department: 231-894-2385 (for Jerard Jackson)
Hinds County Police Department: 601-960-0794 (for Tasia Fortune)
Wake County Police Department: 919-996-3335 (for unidentified man)
