Category: Business

• Jennifer Romolini is the author of "Weird in a World That's Not" and is the host of the podcast Everything Is Fine. 
• Her work has appeared in The New York Times, Elle, Fast Company, Vogue, and many others.
• This is an excerpt from her new book, "Ambition Monster: A Memoir."

In the 2010s, Silicon Valley loves a "disrupter," but I quickly discover what this translates to in real life is literally just interrupting, raising your hand in the middle of Mitch's overworked PowerPoint and blurting out, "Wait, why are we doing [terrible/expensive idea]? Who's this initiative actually for?"

It's the Tom Hanks in "Big" tactic — so simple, it could be executed by a kid — and I begin to implement it as often as I can. It earns me a reputation as a shit-starter and a maverick, which translates well in these white-collar rooms of mostly white-collared men, particularly because it's unexpected from a "creative type" and, more important, a girl.

The part of the company I run is the "lifestyle" section, a resourced-starved, understaffed afterthought of the "News" division, the unloved stepsister of better-funded and more-well-respected categories like Finance and Sports, which are run by men. I oversee a team of highly capable female writers and editors who cover fashion, beauty, fitness, recipes, parenting, pets, and PG-13-rated sex for an audience that's less edgy-cool coastal elite than it is down-home cozy, a USA Today for the digital age, all low-budget cooking and cleaning hacks and detailed reporting on Kate Middleton's lipstick shade.

I'm good at my job, but it comes at a cost

It's a site I wouldn't necessarily read myself, but I understand the assignment. Unlike my last job, where I often struggled to find the right tone, my editorial vision for the tech company's lifestyle site is confident and clear. Having grown up working class in a house where People magazine was the primary news source, I'm near-preternaturally skilled at a job that entails getting inside the minds of mainstream audiences and knowing what makes them tick and — most important — click.

In addition to meetings and managing the day-to-day operations of our site, I'm in charge of an open-blogging, user-generated-content (UGC) platform, a project of which my bosses are especially proud. They boast about its utility in board meetings, rave to advertisers about how it bolsters "community" and "engagement," how it's all happy Midwestern moms sharing their happy-mom tips. It is not. Even with our team's nonstop screening and moderation efforts, it's less populated by wholesome homemaking tricks than by racism, homophobia, and many, many, many sneaky user-generated dick pics.

The work never stops coming. I put in 60-hour weeks. There's always a fire to extinguish, an ego to soothe, an errant dong to delete. In these early months, I relish most any work challenge. The productivity gives me purpose, clearly orders and arranges my days. I show up overprepared to every meeting. I carefully map out editorial goals. I fight for more resources for my team, mostly in vain.

I frequently field unsolicited feedback from top-tier male executives, which is often a nuisance, if not a total waste of my time. One afternoon, a senior male executive calls me "hot pants" in the office kitchen, a comment on the red trousers I wore earlier that week.

Another morning, an SVP pulls me aside to talk about the number of mothers I've hired: Is your ENTIRE staff pregnant? The same day a high-up guy from marketing suggests that what the site I run really needs is more "nip-slips." I smile politely and ignore them. I tap into a well of competitiveness, a Sun Tzu-level of discipline I didn't know I had.

Killing it at work means other parts of my life suffer

In every strategic, interpersonal way I initially failed at Lucky, I triumph in corporate life. The secret to my success is always-on mania, though at this time, you'd probably characterize it as "passion" for what I do. If I'm not at my desk, I'm on my BlackBerry.

When I'm out, I regularly interrupt friends' stories and life updates to hold up an index finger — Just one second, I really need to address this — and tap out emails, disregarding any damage I've caused to conversational flow. I never slow down long enough to consider how little I'm giving to my friendships, how uncomfortable it must be to sit with someone so checked out.

Staying on top of my work is my top priority; doing so makes me feel responsible and important, a sensation I relish. I'm no longer the messy unreliable fuckup I felt like in my 20s, I think, but a sturdier person; respectable, established, moored.

I'm not only a distracted friend. Outside childcare duties, I'm barely present at home. After the baby's bath and bedtime routines, when Alex and I finally sit down to eat takeout, I often spend the meal refreshing my inbox rather than asking about his day. Later, I pull out my laptop and check traffic numbers while we're supposed to be watching "Game of Thrones." Instead of reaching for him in bed, I lie awake with my back turned, proactively identifying and solving problems at the office in my head. Priding myself on my diligence, how little escapes my gaze.

In a capitalist society, onerous work is often as satisfying as it is depleting. We've been conditioned from a young age to find pleasure in accomplishment's rigors and strains. It feels natural to view my overwork as noble, to settle into that foundational groove of the brain. In these first high-achieving months, I revel in the rush of my own competence, but the accompanying stress means it's at the expense of the health of my central nervous system.

Threats to my job real and imagined keep my amygdala firing throughout my days. Goals at the company I work for remain in flux; it's hard to predict which way to march. I survive multiple rounds of layoffs and I'm assured my department is not a future target, but my position never feels quite safe. The job provides my family's healthcare and our livelihood. By definition, I'm dependent on it. Keeping me motivated to work harder, to do as much as I can with less, is an institutional feature not a bug.

Excerpted from Ambition Monster: A Memoir by Jennifer Romolini. Copyright 2024 Jennifer Romolini. Published by Atria Books.

• A Gen Xer became a stay-at-home dad in the mid-2000s after being laid off from his job. 
• After getting divorced a few years ago, he realized he'd eventually need to return to the workforce.
• But he's struggled to find jobs he's qualified for and may have to delay his return to work. 

In the mid-2000s, Dan was let go from his job at a financial firm. He's been out of the workforce ever since.

At first, he was OK with the change, the New Yorker who's in his 40s told Business Insider via email. He and his wife decided that he would care for their children full-time while she pursued her career.

But after being a stay-at-home dad for over a decade, Dan and his wife got divorced a few years ago. While he received an "enviable" settlement that's helped him pay the bills, he said this money will eventually begin to run dry.

"I'm hoping my cash lasts three more years at least," said Dan, whose identity is known to BI, but he asked to use a pseudonym to maintain privacy for his family. He said he could try to stretch the money out as long as possible, but that this would require a steady reduction in his "quality of life."

So after nearly 20 years out of the workforce, Dan has started to dip his toe into the job market. But it's been quite discouraging so far.

"When I review job sites, I'm underqualified for jobs that I used to do, and I most likely present as too old for entry-level positions," he said. "I'm embarrassed to even attempt to update my résumé or even bother applying to a job with my gap in work history and skills."

While the male unemployment rate is low compared to past decades, Dan is among the American men who are struggling to find a job — or have stopped looking entirely. In 1950, roughly 97% of American men ages 25 to 54 had a job or were actively looking for work, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. As of April, this figure had fallen to about 89%.

There are several potential explanations for this decline, including the rising number of men with disabilities, higher incarceration rates, and worsening employment and earnings prospects for people without a college degree. The rising number of stay-at-home dads is arguably a more positive explanation, but in Dan's case, this created an employment gap that could make his return to the workforce more challenging. The career consequences of childcare-related résumé gaps are something women have dealt with for decades.

Dan shared how he's going about his job search, what opportunities he's considering, and why it might be a while before he's able to return to work.

Taking an entry-level job and moving to a less expensive area might be his best option

While he's not actively applying for jobs, Dan said he's been consistently reviewing job listings to figure out whether he's a good fit anywhere.

"I will absolutely reenter the workforce — it's just a question of whether it's something close to what I aspired to post-graduation in my early 20s or like a Walmart greeter or janitor or something in between," he said.

He's not sure how helpful his college degree from over 20 years ago — which was "in the arts" — will be in his search, and he has little desire to pursue graduate school. He said he'd be open to teaching and hospitality jobs, working at a national park, or any type of office role.

"I'm not committed to any direction yet, but I'm not getting any younger," he said. "I'm resigned to ultimately taking an entry-level job if they'll have me."

Dan said he'd been advised to pursue an entry-level job at Home Depot or Costco, in part so he could receive health benefits. He also thinks it would be wise for him to move to a more affordable region of the country to reduce his living expenses.

A path that checks both these boxes might end up being the most practical, he said. But there's another obstacle in his job search, one that might make it difficult for him to move or commit to a significant work schedule for at least a few years.

Even though his ex-wife has custody of the children, Dan said he's the "full-time dad" when she has work commitments like a business trip. He also helps with day-to-day responsibilities like school drop-off and pickup.

"I will probably wait until my kids graduate from high school and then I will move to somewhere cheaper to live and take the best job available to me," he said, adding that this is expected to happen over the next few years.

In the meantime, Dan's trying not to get too pessimistic about his future career outlook.

"Most people identify you by your job," he said. "I don't want to be identified as someone who hasn't had a career during his adult life."

Are you a man who's not looking for work or has struggled to find a job? Are you willing to share your story? If so, reach out to this reporter at jzinkula@businessinsider.com.

• Anant Ambani and Radhika Merchant hosted more pre-wedding parties on a luxury cruise and in Italy.
• Katy Perry, The Backstreet Boys, and Pitbull performed, clips circulating online showed.
• Andrea Bocelli performed as the couple and their guests stopped in Portofino, Italy. 

The Ambanis are still pulling out all the stops to celebrate their upcoming wedding.

Anant Ambani is the son of one of India's richest people, Mukesh Ambani. Along with his fiancée, Radhika Merchant, Anant Ambani threw yet another star-studded bash ahead of their nuptials in July — this time on a luxury cruise.

Pop star Katy Perry performed some of her hit singles, including "Firework," on Friday in Cannes, with clips circulating online.

Other video clips shared online show The Backstreet Boys and Pitbull took to the stage as part of the pre-wedding festivities.

The couple and a large group of their guests also stopped over in Portofino, Italy. They took over a plaza where Italian singer Andrea Bocelli performed, Hindustan Times reported.

India Today reported that several Bollywood stars, including Shah Rukh Khan and Ranveer Singh, were seen at the party in Italy. Hollywood actor Adam Sandler was also present, photos shared on social media showed.

The cruise set sail last week from Italy to the south of France. About 800 guests had been invited, along with 600 staff to look after them, the Deccan Chronicle reported.

The four-day affair included a masquerade party and "La Dolce Vita"-themed festivities, Harpers Bazaar Arabia reported.

The Ambanis initially kicked off the pre-wedding celebrations in March with other lavish parties, one of which featured a performance by Rihanna.

Some of the high-profile guests included Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg, his wife Priscilla Chan, Microsoft cofounder Bill Gates, and Ivanka Trump.

Representatives for the Ambanis at Reliance Industries didn't immediately respond to a request for comment from Business Insider, made outside normal working hours.

• Sam Mitchell lives comfortably in a tiny New York home on less than $30,000 a year from Social Security.
• He left a high-paying real estate career in 2008 before moving to Peru and road-tripping across the US.
• He said his fellow peak boomers should be more creative about approaching retirement.

Sam Mitchell, 64, has a yearly income of below $30,000 a year from Social Security. But he said he lives "perfectly comfortably."

He lives in a 100-square-foot "little shack" on the side of a road in upstate New York for half the year and in a mobile home at the end of a dirt road in Florida the other half. It's a very different way of life from the corporate real estate job he had 15 years ago in Austin making six figures and owning five homes.

Last year, he made a "whopping" $15,000 from his Airbnb operation in the Finger Lakes region, all of which he reinvested in the business.

He thinks his way of life isn't that far out of reach for other people around his age.

"I have friends who are 80 years old who are still working because they're so terrified not having enough money, and I'm going, guys, look at me," he said. "I am making a fourth of the money I was making in 2008, but nobody is going to do it."

Across the country, many peak boomers — or those set to hit the traditional retirement age of 65 between now and 2030 — are worried they won't have enough saved for retirement. Some have told Business Insider they won't be able to retire ever, while others are concerned that with rising rent and food costs, Social Security payments won't be enough to cover basic expenses.

Mitchell, though, said people's definition of "comfort" may be too idealistic.

"I call it the 'C-word,'" he said. "A peak boomer's definition of comfort is the reason they're so freaked out and feeling FOMO. It's called stepping out of your comfort zone, but people are so terrified and can't do it. They have nobody but themselves to blame."

Leaving luxury behind

Mitchell was born and raised in Atlanta and went to college at the University of Florida. He worked as a journalist in Santa Cruz, California, for a few years, then switched to being a real estate agent, a transition he described as "absolutely absurd."

For two decades, he worked on and off at Keller Williams in the Austin market. He said he would "run up a bunch of money" one year, then take a few months off in countries like Costa Rica, before starting the whole process again. He also was a landlord and bought up rental properties across the state.

He recalled attending lavish parties with musicians performing at South by Southwest and Austin City Limits. He also had a nice car and truck, and he anticipated that by the mid-2000s, he was spending about $80,000 a year on expenses.

"The life I was leading in South Austin in 2008 was the life that 95% of this planet probably would have traded for," Mitchell said. "I had a beautiful four-bedroom, three-bath on the South Austin Greenbelt. I was up to five houses."

Around that time, he had a goal of wanting to own 40 houses in Austin by the time he turned 65, then sell one every six months until he was 85. He wanted to follow the path of one of his real estate investor friends.

But that year, he walked away from all of it.

"I made the decision to disentangle myself, this whole career hamster wheel," he said, noting he began liquidating his assets in April of that year. "The pressure just popped in 2008, even before the market crashed."

He sold his primary residence and three other homes, and his license expired at the end of that year. He paid off all his credit cards, got rid of many of his belongings, and left behind the luxurious life, knowing he could always go back to it and make $100,000 "without getting out of my chair."

Moving to New York and Florida

To start life anew, he bought a farm in Peru and built a small house. He lived in Peru and Ecuador for four years, mostly off the grid, before coming back to the US in 2012. He kept one Austin home that he rented to a tenant, who paid him $650 a month.

Upon moving back, he decided to live out of his pickup truck and drive through California, Oregon, and Washington at first. He had a bedroom in the Austin home he could resort to, but he spent 10 months of the year traveling with his dog, Sancho Panza. He did this for about seven years, getting to see much of the US.

He eventually found a home outside of Ithaca, New York, for $35,000 on 14 acres of land. He had almost no money left and was still three years from getting Social Security, but his sister helped him cover the cost with the promise that he would sell the Austin home to pay back his debt.

He put the Austin home on the market on March 9, 2020, perhaps the "single worst day to put a house up for sale in the 21st century," he said, coming just days before the COVID-19 pandemic would lead to lockdowns across the country. With the money, he bought a "new" 2013 truck that had 200,000 miles on it and been wrecked previously.

Once Social Security payments kicked in, he relied on the $900 a month to get by. He didn't have many expenses, as he had no children to support, no mortgage, and no health insurance. Though the $900 a month could not compare to his salary 15 years ago, he said it's enough to get by and live comfortably.

He started an Airbnb business on his property after constructing his first tiny house from an eight-foot by eight-foot toolshed. He moved into this property and rented out the 384-square-foot house to tenants who take care of the home during the winter.

He worked with a local Amish family to build two other tiny houses on the property. He also built a little community kitchen measuring eight feet by 20 feet. When all homes are rented, he lives in a nine-square-foot camper.

He said he's still on the red on this business, as he's only open five months a year, but he's hopeful it will soon be profitable. He has a small side hustle buying vacant lots in Florida with two friends, sometimes doubling the money on their initial investments and using their returns to purchase more real estate. Still, it's zero annual income as none of it lands in his pocket.

He also goes to Florida each November for a few months, living near a swamp in a 600-square-foot mobile home.

"If you are willing to do this, then you can easily live comfortably in these beautiful surroundings making less than $30,000 a year," he said. "I'm living proof of it. I have other friends who have made similar decisions, and we're all getting a little sick and tired of the whining."

He said many of his fellow peak boomers need to reconsider what they need to live comfortably, arguing that they need to get more creative with income streams.

"I'm not living under a bridge — I'm running a business," he said. "I live in these absolutely beautiful surroundings, but you just have to trim down on all your gadgets. I just traded in my beautiful i7 computer that was going haywire for a Pentium processor. The guy at BestBuy was absolutely horrified that I was making this decision."

Have you recently moved to a new state? Are you worried about retirement? Reach out to this reporter at nsheidlower@businessinsider.com.

American Express used to be your dad's card. OK, your rich dad's card. Or, fine, your rich friend's rich dad's card. But now, for a growing cohort of Gen Zers and millennials, it's their card, too. Amex has cracked the code with the youngs, and it's managed to do so without giving up its prestige image.

American Express has long been viewed as the fancy credit-card company. Its products were historically seen as being for jet-setters and the wealthy, with "wealthy" usually translating to "older." The idea wasn't that young people wouldn't use any Amex products but that they'd get initiated into the low-level ones and then eventually graduate to the most premium versions of its cards as they got better jobs, made more money, etc. Amex also wasn't broadly accepted because of its swipe fees, meaning what merchants pay every time they run a credit card. For years, customers were a lot likelier to get a no on using their Amex at any given merchant than they were when paying with a Mastercard or Visa, sometimes making the former a headache to have.

But that has started to shift. Amex has updated its benefits mix to focus on younger people with the things they might like. It has used those perks to get Gen Zers and millennials — many of whom have that "wealthy" status — to sign up for premium cards sooner rather than later. The companies' acceptance rate, at least in the US, is also much improved. You no longer have to enter a restaurant or store checking to see whether the American Express sticker is on the door. Add all this up, and Amex morphs into a popular, relatively accessible status symbol for young consumers.

The fruits of the new strategy were pretty clear in the company's first-quarter earnings presentation: Gen Z and millennial consumers made up 33% of its billed business in its consumer division, basically meaning using its products for purchases. By contrast, Gen X represented 37%, and baby boomers 31%. According to the company, millennials and Gen Z consumers made up 60% of its new customer acquisitions worldwide, and 75% of its new platinum and gold accounts were opened by millennial and Gen Z members. Those accounts come with some nice rewards — and some high accompanying fees. The gold card costs $250 a year, and the platinum $700.

"We realized that going after millennials and Gen Z was a key thing for us," Amex CEO Steve Squeri said in an April interview with Jim Cramer on CNBC. He explained that while the company used to target them with no-fee cards, it had now turned to trying to attract them with premium, high-fee cards. "With millennials and Gen Zs, what we realized is that they wanted access, they wanted experiences, they wanted to get special privileges," he said. So Amex delivered.

Amex has implemented a number of tactics to pull off its youth revolution and cement its place as a status symbol among relatively affluent millennial and Gen Z consumers. For one thing, as Squeri alluded to, it's done some thinking about what the younger crowd wants in terms of rewards. Yes, travel points for flights and hotels are nice, but so are other benefits that have helped turn it into more of a lifestyle card than just a travel card, Michael Miller, an analyst at Morningstar Research, said. The company has folded in rewards such as credits on Uber rides, Disney streaming services, and New York Times and Wall Street Journal subscriptions. It puts money toward Saks shopping sprees and offers credits for Walmart+ memberships.

"The way they finance this is they work with the actual retailers to split the cost, and they essentially act as really high-end coupons," Miller said. "That's really how they keep the appeal and keep it luxury, by not really compromising on the price of the cards themselves."

Amex gives some of its customers special access for various events, including a chance to buy tickets early or get certain passes to the US Open and Coachella. And it sometimes gives them reserved spaces inside those events, too, keeping its reputation of exclusivity intact. I, for one, have found myself at events staring at some American Express exclusive space and trying to see whether anyone I'm with has the magic card to get us in.

"Amex is like, 'You know what? We know that this age cohort is attending Coachella. We're going to have — if you have a platinum card, you can get into the Amex tent. And we're going to have simple things that are really hard to get or expensive to access at Coachella, free water fountains, a place to kind of sit in air conditioning,'" Daisy Hernandez, the credit-cards editor at The Points Guy, said. "Those are the kinds of people who are like, 'I'm going to have this credit card because I want this extra premium access.'"

Millennials and Gen Zers, many of whom are hungry for experience over possessions, are not sleeping on the Amex travel perks, either. The platinum card, for example, offers credits on hotels and airline fees, covers the cost of a Clear Plus membership for airport security, and grants complimentary lounge access at multiple airports. It also has restaurant-reservation perks through the platform Resy.

"They haven't ditched the travel stuff at all," Miller said. "It's really more of an addition."

They're laying the groundwork for the next generation.

For many young consumers, having an Amex rewards card is sort of like having a good, varied subscription service that runs them less than $60 a month. Amex says that the platinum card's credits are worth something like $1,500 a year, which is more than double the annual fee. (Amex, of course, has a ton of cards that aren't premium and have a variety of different perks or benefits. It's a real choose-your-own-adventure situation depending on which one you might want, if you do at all.)

On American Express' part, this all makes sense. Many young consumers don't carry cash and expect to be able to put everything on their cards. The company's continued focus on high-income, high-spending customers, including Gen Zers and millennials, gives it more bargaining power with merchants who don't want to turn those consumers away. And once Amex gets those customers in the pipeline, it has a lot more time to get value out of them compared with older consumers who are closer to retirement and, you know, death.

"They're laying the groundwork for the next generation, and they feel they have a great offering and great growth potential because if you've only catered to the much older, those folks are not going to be around, potentially, in 20 years, whereas the millennial still will be," Stephen Biggar, the director of financial-institutions research at Argus Research, said.

Amex isn't alone in targeting the rich, young crowd. Chase Sapphire, for example, is giving it a run for its money with some of its offerings, namely, its Reserve card. And all consumers might want to consider the trade-offs of their pricey rewards cards. Research has found that rewards cards can be a transfer of wealth from the poor to the rich because of the high swipe fees that come with them (though those swipe fees are coming down a little for a few years). And even if you're not concerned about what happens to the guy paying cash behind you at the bodega, if you don't pay off your credit-card bill every month and instead carry a balance, you may not get the bang for your buck on your rewards.

All that aside, the Amex Platinum Card seems neat. Did I spend a significant part of the reporting for this story repeatedly looking up said card and trying to decide whether I should eat the fee and get one? I did. I've got some travel coming up, and the Centurion Lounge sounds nice.

Emily Stewart is a senior correspondent at Business Insider, writing about business and the economy.

• Elon Musk's feud with Meta AI chief Yann LeCun is escalating.
• The two have been trading barbs via posts on X for the last week.
• In a recent post, LeCun slammed Musk for his "dangerous political opinions."

Elon Musk's public feud with Meta's AI chief and award-winning scientist, Yann LeCun, is escalating.

The two have been trading barbs via posts on X for the last week, arguing about Musk's management style and the value of scientific work.

On Sunday, LeCun upped the anti, sharing a lengthy X post about his opinion on the Tesla CEO.

While he praised Musk's Tesla cars, SpaceX satellite communication system, and position on open source AI, he also slammed the billionaire for what he called "dangerous" public positions.

LeCun said: "I think his public positions on many political issues, journalism, the media and the press, and academia, are not just wrong but dangerous for democracy, civilization, and human welfare.

"Say what you want about "traditional media," but you can't really have reliable information without professional journalists working for a free and diverse press. Democracy can't exist without it, which is why only authoritarian ennemies of democracy rail against the media."

LeCun also accused Musk of disseminating "batshit-crazy conspiracy theories as long as they serve his interests."

"One would expect a technological visionary to be a rationalist. Rationalism doesn't work without Truth," LeCun wrote.

The AI pioneer also took aim at Musk's Twitter acquisition and subsequent management of the platform. He said the billionaire had been "naïve" about the difficulties of running a social media platform and complications around content moderation.

LeCun said some of Musk's stances on media and political issues had "become particularly concerning since he bought himself a platform to disseminate his dangerous political opinions, conspiracy theories, and hype."

Musk shared a meme about the AI researcher in an apparent response to some of the criticism.

The billionaire received some support from Emad Mostaque, the founder and former CEO of Stability AI. Mostaque shared a post mimicking LeCun's and praising Musk as "the most holistically intelligent, high agency person I know."

Representatives for Musk and LeCun did not immediately respond to a request for comment from Business Insider, made outside normal working hours.

On a mild Houston day in March 2021, Judge Marvin Isgur prepared to oversee the only case on his docket that morning. It was a motion to recuse his longtime colleague on the bench, David Jones, from a case involving a bankrupt engineering company.

Motions are the bread and butter of the US court system, and litigants use recusal motions to request a new judge if they have concerns about a conflict of interest or bias. An independent judge hears the arguments and decides if there is enough evidence to grant the motion, requiring the assigned judge to step aside.

On this day, the circumstances were anything but usual. The motion, filed months earlier, had just been updated with a shocking allegation: Jones was in a "romantic relationship" with attorney Elizabeth Freeman, his former clerk and then a lawyer at Jackson Walker, a Texas firm that often appeared before Jones and Isgur in the Southern District of Texas bankruptcy court, where the pair of judges handled the most high-profile cases.

Michael Van Deelen, the plaintiff in a shareholder case against executives of the engineering company McDermott International, wrote that he'd received a document in the mail alleging the relationship. The note went further, saying that Freeman was the "strategic link" between Jackson Walker attorneys, including Matthew Cavenaugh, and cases handled by Jones.

Freeman and Cavenaugh were both well known to Isgur. Freeman had clerked for Jones for six years, and later joined a special committee the two judges created as they centralized large bankruptcy cases under their control. Cavenaugh was a former Isgur clerk. And yet Isgur had chosen himself when Jones asked him to assign a judge to decide the recusal.

His choice wasn't all that surprising given their 30-year relationship. As law partners, Isgur and Jones had formed a lifelong bond, and as bankruptcy judges, they had created an ambitious, if controversial, machine for attracting cases to the Southern District.

"It's a very special and close relationship that came from being a mentor to a best friend to a colleague," a member of the Houston bar said at a December 2023 hearing, "and created something very big and special in this district."

Van Deelen's motion threatened to unravel it all, exposing grave conflicts of interest and a tight network of informal communications that allowed lawyers, including Freeman, to leverage their access to bring in more cases, building their firm's clout and revenue. "Judge Jones's secret relationship with Ms. Freeman," the US Trustee wrote in a November filing, "created an unlevel 'playing field' for every party in interest in every case Jackson Walker had before Judge Jones."

Several Houston attorneys said they considered Isgur a brilliant judge whose response to the recusal motion was out of character. Over nearly 20 years on the bench, during which he had overseen thousands of cases, he developed a history for being a stickler on questions of ethics.

In 2014, he issued an order removing an attorney who'd worked at his former firm, W. Steve Smith, from his duties overseeing a bankruptcy estate after Smith had sought reimbursement from the estate for around $3,500 for a three-day personal stay prior to an oral argument in New Orleans.

In 2015, Isgur joined another judge to initiate an investigation into another trustee for what they considered improprieties surrounding a creditor payment plan — even though a former chief judge had described the approach as a longstanding practice. In at least two other cases, Isgur has personally questioned witnesses he called himself — including, once, Jones, while he was appearing before Isgur as an attorney.

Bankruptcy judges have broad discretion, what the author Michael Lewis has called "sensational powers," to decide what evidence to allow in a case. And yet in the Jones recusal case, the aggressive Isgur was nowhere to be seen.

First, he ordered the motion and the anonymously authored document sealed. Then, over the course of the roughly 40-minute long hearing, he refused to admit the anonymous note into evidence. He did not call to the stand either Freeman or Cavenaugh, though he knew them both well. And when Van Deelen asked for time to depose witnesses about the allegations, Isgur shut that down, his tone giving off a sense of frustration.

"No, your motion for a continuance is denied," according to audio of the judge's remarks. "I'm not going to let you take a deposition about the contents of an anonymous letter. That would be totally outrageous." Minutes later, Isgur denied the motion for recusal. A US district court judge later denied Van Deelen's appeal, agreeing that the note had no evidentiary value.

The matter may have been largely forgotten, one of any number of denials handed down every day throughout the United States court system.

But the anonymous note resurfaced two and a half years later when Van Deelen filed a lawsuit against Jones, alleging retaliation, this time relying on evidence that Jones and Freeman owned a home together, as Business Insider was the first to report. (Jones has filed a motion to dismiss in that case, which remains pending.)

Over the next 10 days, Jones admitted he and Freeman were in a romantic relationship, earned a rare public rebuke from the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, and resigned.

It was as if a meteor had hit one of the country's most influential bankruptcy courts. His resignation led 3,500 cases to be reassigned and sparked the Department of Justice to demand Jackson Walker give back nearly $23 million in fees it had earned in cases that Jones had overseen. The Southern District juggernaut, which had pulled in scores of massive cases and enriched the Houston bankruptcy bar, was over.

But Isgur remained unscathed. In her written rebuke of Jones, the Fifth Circuit chief judge took care to note that "on information and belief, the judge who ruled on the motion to recuse was unaware" that Jones and Freeman were romantic partners. But an extensive document trail, social media posts, and nearly a dozen sources inside Houston's legal community suggest that narrative is implausible.

Freeman's attorney, Tom Kirkendall, declined to comment on her behalf. Isgur did not respond to requests for comment sent through his staff. Jones' attorney, Gary Cruciani, did not respond to requests for comment.

"Typically, best friends know the identities of their friends' long-term romantic partners," Nancy Rapoport, an influential legal ethicist and professor at the University of Nevada Las Vegas William S. Boyd School of Law, wrote in a paper about the ethical questions surrounding Jones' relationship. "But only Judge Isgur knows what he knew or didn't know about the relationship."

In fact, the rise of the Southern District was inseparable from the close relationships between Jones and Isgur, Jones and Freeman, and the firm where Freeman was a partner, Jackson Walker. The Fifth Circuit found that "substantial" money was involved.

'I love him like a father'

Isgur and Jones first began working together in 1993, when Isgur and Kirkendall, then his law partner, hired Jones out of the University of Houston law school as an associate, Jones said in a February 2022 interview for an American Bankruptcy Institute podcast. Jones was being pursued by a much larger firm, he told someone at the time, when Isgur and Kirkendall persuaded him to join their small litigation boutique. Both men spoke at Jones' wedding reception at Brennan's, the venerable Houston restaurant, according to someone who attended.

It would prove to be his most influential professional relationship. "They took me in, taught me how to think, how to write, and how to be a lawyer," Jones said of Isgur and Kirkendall in March 2023 when he accepted a lifetime achievement award from Emory Law School. Isgur was chosen to introduce him.

For years, Isgur and Jones lived a short distance away from each other in a wealthy enclave on Houston's west side. Jones would go sailing on Galveston Bay with Isgur on his boat. The two men often ate together at hole-in-the-wall restaurants, according to two people familiar with their habits. One of the sources said they were frequently joined at these dinners by their wives.

By some measures, the two men made an odd pair. The elder judge was a Houston native, a member of the influential Winograd real estate family, and a nondrinker. He wore his receding hair cropped close and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him the authority of a man steeped in the law. Behind the bench, he was always in control. Jones, on the other hand, was voluble and audacious. A North Carolina native estranged from his father, Jones liked sharing a drink with members of the Houston bar. As a judge, he would sometimes berate litigants and attorneys in his court, and he liked to boast about how, as an attorney, he had pushed the boundaries of the law.

Yet over the years, their relationship blossomed into something almost familial. "I love him like a father," Jones once said of Isgur. In introducing Jones at the Emory event, Isgur called him his "stubborn adopted son."

"There is no better feeling than when a parent watches his child surpass him in capability and achievement," Isgur said. "I am so proud."

Isgur's only actual child, Sarah, is a conservative lawyer known for her close relationships with Supreme Court justices and her three years in the Trump administration. Most recently, she's made a name hosting a must-listen legal podcast, Advisory Opinions, in which she has repeatedly explored questions of judicial ethics.

When Jones appeared on the podcast in 2020, their dynamic was warm. Sarah called him a "family friend," and Jones congratulated Isgur on her pregnancy. Several years earlier, when Sarah got married in the federal courthouse, her father officiated and Jones and his then wife were in attendance, according to one wedding guest.

After Isgur became a bankruptcy judge, appointed by the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in 2004, Jones joined Porter Hedges, a Houston law firm whose 1981 founding made it a relative newcomer to the city's legal scene. Porter Hedges' scrappy status gave Jones the freedom to further develop into an aggressive litigator, making his name representing trustees charged with selling off assets in Chapter 7 bankruptcies.

Legal records suggest that Jones may have first crossed paths with Freeman in 2002, when he was still in private practice with Isgur; that year, she represented a creditor and Jones a trustee in the same bankruptcy case. Over four days in March 2008, each attorney was assigned to a case the other had already been working on for months. By the following year, Freeman had joined Porter Hedges as a partner to work with Jones in the bankruptcy practice, according to a person who knew them at the time. Her husband had recently joined Porter Hedges, too.

At Porter Hedges, Jones and Freeman worked closely together. In several pleadings from that time, they appear on the same signature block, indicating that they were jointly handling a case.

It's unclear when Jones and Freeman first became romantically involved, but Porter Hedges appeared to take a more liberal stance on interoffice romance than many Big Law firms did at the time. John Higgins, a senior partner, started dating Whitney Ables when they worked together at Porter; they were later married in a ceremony Jones officiated. Josh Wolfshohl also met his wife Amy Lucas while they were working together there; both remain at the firm. And Porter hired Freeman even though her husband was already a partner there.

Isgur, during his time on the bench, had encouraged Jones to consider becoming a bankruptcy judge. When Judge Wesley Steen retired from the Southern District of Texas bankruptcy court in 2011, Jones got his chance, and applied to the Fifth Circuit — whose judges appoint bankruptcy judges in the circuit — to fill Steen's seat. Jones would again become a close colleague of his mentor.

Isgur moved quickly to get Jones hearing cases, swearing him in at a private ceremony in advance of the official investiture, a small gathering he hosted in his courtroom on the fourth floor of Houston's federal courthouse. About two dozen people were there, according to two people who attended, including Freeman. She was tasked with taking pictures, and at one point, her emotions overcame her and she teared up, according to one of the attendees.

By then, Freeman had already decided to leave her job at Porter Hedges, where she was poised to earn handsomely by taking over casework from Jones. That year, partners at Houston's law firms earned on average nearly $800,000, according to one compensation survey. Instead, she took up a position as Jones' permanent clerk, likely making closer to $100,000 in a role she would hold for the next six years. The following year, her husband moved to dissolve their marriage, according to Harris County records.

"When I heard she went and became his law clerk, I thought that's a surprise. I would not have expected that to be a typical career path for Liz," said a former colleague of theirs at Porter Hedges. "When I heard that they were eventually found to be cohabitating, it didn't surprise me."

Just months after Freeman began her clerkship, Jones too got divorced.

"I probably should have talked with, at that time, my wife — now my ex-wife — about that decision, because that's obviously a huge change," Jones told Reuters in 2020. "I just decided that it was something that I was going to do and if I was going to do it, I was going to devote the same energy into being a judge that I did into being a lawyer." He suggested in another interview that the couple experienced tension over the decrease in his pay.

Jones kept the house he had shared with his wife, and sometime later, Freeman moved in with him, according to one person aware of the arrangement. The real estate photos Jones used later to sell the home showed what looked like a boy's bedroom, even though Freeman was the only one in the couple with kids, and a closet that held women's clothing.

In 2017, Jones purchased a house in a gentrifying neighborhood in northwest Houston, not far from his previous home. He and Freeman toured the home together, and Jones ultimately paid $985,000 in cash, Bloomberg reported in April. Real estate records show that they came to jointly own it.

Whether Isgur visited Jones at the homes he shared with Freeman is unclear, but the elder judge would have witnessed the dynamic between the pair over the six years they all worked closely together at the Houston courthouse.

"They set up the special panel because they are great judges, and they are great arbiters of the law, and then to say they don't have the same sensibility with the people they have lunch with beggars disbelief," said Bruce Markell, a former federal bankruptcy judge in Nevada who now teaches law at Northwestern's Pritzker School of Law. "It's not like Isgur didn't know her. Whether he knew about the relationship or not I don't know, but it would be difficult for me to think that Isgur was taken completely by surprise by the allegations."

A plan to grow the Houston court

When Jones joined the bankruptcy court for the Southern District of Texas, Delaware and New York dominated as the venue of choice for major corporate bankruptcies. But Jones and Isgur came up with a plan to make Houston a magnet.

Corporate bankruptcies are big business. For decades, the process has been used by companies with too much debt and not enough cash to find fresh footing — and over time, it's become one of the most lucrative areas of law. Top attorneys can make up to $2,500 an hour in bankruptcy cases, the kind of money that can warp a system. In recent decades, bankruptcy forum shopping has become rampant, with firms filing in whatever federal district they like, just by showing a local address there. Sometimes a PO Box is enough. So lawyers tend to congregate where they find corporate-friendly judges who have a reputation for quickly moving companies through the process and signing off on lawyers' fees.

While Delaware and New York dominated as the venues of choice for major bankruptcies, millions of dollars flowed into the coffers of local law firms. The judges became their own power centers, with every decision affecting the paychecks of local lawyers and the fortunes of their firms: Decide against the debtor and their law firm might seek a different venue for their next client.

Houston judges had tried to break into the upper ranks before, without success. Judge William Greendyke promised attorneys in 2000 that the judges' "war on fees is over," according to Lynn LoPucki's book Courting Failure. A year later, Houston-based Enron still chose New York for its spectacular bankruptcy.

In 2016, Jones and Isgur began to hatch a more ambitious plan to make Houston welcoming. Success would mean more money for the men and women of the local bankruptcy bar, and more power and prestige for the Southern District of Texas. They created a special panel for complex cases, changing Southern District rules so extremely large or complex Chapter 11 bankruptcies — including, now, those involving at least $200 million in debt — would get an unusual degree of predictability. Even though the Judicial Conference, which sets policy for the federal courts, had long supported the random assignment of federal judges in order to deter judge-shopping, the new Southern District scheme would assign every complex case to just one of two judges: Jones or Isgur.

"Overnight, bankruptcy lawyers that typically worked on large, complex cases before any one of 3 or 4 sitting bankruptcy judges," Jackson Walker wrote in a court filing last month, "now would be practicing almost exclusively (and routinely) before 1 of 2 bankruptcy judges."

It was an effort, the firm said, to "make procedures more transparent and predictable."

In fact, the two men sought to achieve an extraordinary degree of consistency across their two dockets and would often discuss each other's cases, according to someone who heard it directly from Jones. The two men would walk back and forth to each other's chambers on the courthouse's fourth floor. "We talk every day, multiple times, whether he wants to or not," Jones said in his remarks last year at Emory. "I can't imagine him not being right down the hall."

The judges threw open the doors to the bankruptcy bar, creating a committee of bankruptcy attorneys to advise the judges on industry best practices. Among the founding members were Patricia Tomasco, then a partner at Jackson Walker; Christopher Lopez, an attorney at Weil, Gotshal & Manges who would go on to become a Southern District judge; and Greendyke, who had by then retired as a judge.

Another reform was to promise attorneys for major corporations concierge access to court officials to expedite scheduling and process matters. Jones assigned his case manager, Albert Alonzo, a government-issued cell phone and told him to answer it whenever it rang. Jones would call him in the middle of the night to test his resolve and Alonzo always answered, the judge told Reuters in 2020.

"He is the public's way to talk with me," Jones told the Texas Lawbook in 2020. "He has tremendous scheduling authority. He's great at customer service."

As they worked together, the two men grew close. Jones said he spent time with Alonzo's family during the holidays and at least once he and Freeman attended Alonzo's annual tamale-making party together, according to a social media post.

A close circle of lawyers around Jones

Isgur was known to avoid spending time with Houston's bankruptcy bar outside of the courthouse or official conferences. But just down the hall, Jones routinely blurred the boundaries between his professional and personal lives, becoming friends with a group of attorneys who often appeared before him.

Jones had issued an order in 2016 arguing against "unspoken practices, or disparate treatment" even as he was offering special access, in a variety of ways, for this small network of lawyers.

According to two attorneys close to Jones' circle, a small group of lawyers would often hang around Jones' chambers, which he decorated with framed news articles about him. One, a 2020 Houston Chronicle profile, was headlined: "Meet the judge who saved the Texas bankruptcy practice." (After that article came out, someone taped up a piece of paper outside the fourth floor elevators with the word "savior" and an arrow pointing to Jones' courtroom, a third attorney recalls.)

The locked entrance to his chambers became such a revolving door that when Van Deelen pressed the buzzer in October 2023, intending to hand his retaliation lawsuit to Jones, he was let in with no questions asked, he said. Alonzo once posted that a lawyer close to Jones, Susan Tran Adams, stopped by with coffee and empanadas.

On his frequent visits to Jones' chambers, Isgur likely saw the crowd, which often included Freeman. Two attorneys specifically recall Isgur entering Jones' chambers while other lawyers were present.

Jones said he and some of the lawyers formed a cooking team that would enter local barbecue and chili competitions, and several in the group recently started a nonprofit together. Social media posts over the years of informal gatherings show Jones, Freeman, and Alonzo hamming it up with other lawyers.

The following year, a Houston bankruptcy attorney invited a group of lawyers, including Jackson Walker attorneys Matt Cavenaugh, Veronica Polnick, and Genevieve Graham, as well as Freeman, then running her own practice, to a party for Jones, according to someone who was told about the party.

At the root of many of these friendships was a drop-in evidence class Jones began to lead for Houston lawyers soon after he joined the bench. The free class started small and invite-only, but after several years grew to number 40 or 50 students, according to someone who attended.

Regulars included attorneys who worked at, or would later join, Jackson Walker, according to emails, such as Polnick, Graham, and Cavenaugh. According to a recent Jackson Walker legal filing, "other bankruptcy judges and prominent local practitioners attended the classes" as well.

"They were well attended," said another Houston bankruptcy attorney. "I attended a couple, and you could really see the young attorneys clicking."

Jones clicked with them, too. "There are several young lawyers that are present tonight that I first met in a weekly class that I teach in my courtroom on most Wednesdays," Jones said in his prepared remarks for the Emory event last year. "It also turned out that the class was as much of a learning session for me as it was a teaching session. Not only did we become better professionals together, we became friends."

Jones officiated the marriages of at least two lawyers who attended those classes: Tran and Graham.

The class was effectively yet another Jones strategy for attracting bankruptcy filings to the Southern District — and a way for members of the Houston bar to explore tactics they might later deploy in Jones' court.

The classes were sometimes also a ticket to career advancement. At least one young law graduate, Christina Morrison, used the classes to successfully audition for a clerkship with Jones.

Isgur was well aware of the tight legal community around Jones' evidence class. He told the assembled crowd at Emory how "young lawyers show up weekly — dozens of them — to learn trial tactics and bankruptcy from David."

After I tried and failed to find an opportunity to introduce myself to Isgur at the courthouse, I visited Isgur's home in April, hoping to find out how the judge was currently feeling about his adopted son and to ask when he first became aware of Jones' relationship with Freeman.

A woman who appeared to be his wife answered, keeping the door closed and speaking through a side window of the stately brick home. "Get the hell away from us," she said, after I identified myself as a journalist. When I turned to leave, the woman noticed that my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She commented on the style, and when I turned back to face her, she began to mock me, moving her hips in a side-to-side dance. "Do you want to wear a skirt or earrings? Are you trans?"

As her voice rose, she hurled an expletive and screamed, "Get off the property!"

Rumors of a romantic relationship

Jones and Isgur's efforts soon began to attract hundreds of filings to the district. Big names showed up: Neiman Marcus and J.C. Penney, then Chesapeake Energy.

Tomasco, the Jackson Walker partner who was a member of the complex cases committee, had already been doing her part to build up the court and drum up business for her firm by flying to New York in a campaign to convince the Big Law bankruptcy attorneys to bring their cases south. But the flow of cases only escalated after Freeman left her clerkship, in May 2018, and joined the firm.

Freeman quickly became known as someone who bristled over complying with protocols and failed to loop her colleagues in on critical communications.

She and Cavenaugh set up a business agreement that, according to two of their professional contacts, appeared to be premised on Freeman's tight relationship with Jones paying off. Though Freeman hadn't worked at a law firm in six years, Cavenaugh and Freeman agreed to split the origination income they got for bringing in new cases, according to the two sources, who were told about the arrangement. Like anyone exiting public service, Freeman hadn't done marketing in years. If she hadn't delivered, it could have meant a substantial compensation loss for Cavenaugh. Instead, according to a November Jackson Walker filing, Freeman enjoyed "quick and substantial success."

"Sharing origination fees is common in the industry, and it is well known that sharing is part of our culture at Jackson Walker," firm spokesperson Jim Wilkinson said by email. "We quite often share origination fees among attorneys irrespective of location and there is nothing out of the ordinary with our compensation practices."

Already, the rumors about Jones and Freeman's romantic relationship were frequent enough that at least one attorney confronted Jones about it; Jones responded by denying the relationship.

"I would see them going to lunch together," said the former colleague from Porter Hedges. "It's not unusual for judges and their clerks to go to lunch together but we typically think of a federal judge's law clerk in bankruptcy or district court as a substantially younger person relatively recently out of school. The optics were different."

Now, Jackson Walker had a partner with a direct line to the leading judge of the Southern District of Texas bankruptcy court. Business boomed. During Jones' career on the bench, two firms, Kirkland & Ellis and Jackson Walker, represented the most debtors with confirmed Chapter 11 plans, according to data provider Lex Machina. And Kirkland & Ellis — whose attorneys were invited to Jones' evidence class as special guests at least twice, according to emails — often relied on Jackson Walker as its local counsel.

Between 2012 and 2017, before Freeman left for Jackson Walker, just 27 companies with liabilities of $100 million or more filed their bankruptcy in the Southern District of Texas, according to BankruptcyData. From 2018 through 2023 that number more than quadrupled to 148. During the three years ending in 2023, Jones and Isgur together handled nearly a third of all bankruptcy cases with liabilities over $1 billion.

Jackson Walker was involved in a large number of them, with Freeman, as the US Trustee said, creating an "unlevel 'playing field.'"

The Trustee Program has filed several motions to force the law firm to disgorge a total of nearly $23 million in what it called "tainted" fees collected in cases involving Jackson Walker that were heard by Jones as far back as 2018. More than $2 million of those fees were personally collected by Freeman.

As a clerk, Freeman was present while Jones and Isgur were concocting the idea of the complex cases committee. As a Jackson Walker attorney, she became a formal member. But Freeman continued to act as if she were an insider. When Tomasco, for example, asked the committee members in a December 27, 2021, email if the court's hybrid hearing schedule would change, Freeman responded, according to correspondence BI obtained through a public records request. "It will continue until further notice," she wrote from her Jackson Walker address.

By this point, Isgur had become one of the busiest bankruptcy judges in the country. Jackson Walker attorneys including Cavenaugh and Freeman were frequently appearing in front of him. 

And companies were now aggressively venue shopping in the Southern District of Texas.

Bankruptcy rules require a company to be based in the district for 180 days. But court filings in the 2023 bankruptcy of the biopharmaceutical company Sorrento show that Jackson Walker attorney Veronica Polnick — another former Jones clerk — visited a UPS Store on the outskirts of Houston to open a mailbox less than 10 hours before the company filed for bankruptcy.

That UPS store soon became the principal place of business for other Jackson Walker clients, according to legal filings: medical technology firm Surgalign Spine Technologies, sweet treat subscription company Candy Club LLC, and industrial food startup AppHarvest Products, all with mailboxes registered by Polnick — in one instance for a case filed by Cavenaugh.

So much bankruptcy business was coming into Houston that attorneys there were getting bold.

In April 2022, the bankruptcy bar met for a conference at the Omni Hotel in Corpus Christi, a chance for attorneys to get continuing education credits — and face time with judges. A panel titled "Judges Panel — Ask Anything You Want!" at the end of the three-day event gave attorneys an open forum to ask questions of Jones, Isgur, and the other bankruptcy judges of the Southern District of Texas.

As Cavenaugh roamed the room with the mic, one attorney spoke up, saying clients had reported that other attorneys were suggesting they had a special connection with the judges of the Southern District. The attorney asked the judges how lawyers should respond the next time they heard something about these attorneys' special status, according to someone in attendance.

Jones, in prefacing a noncommittal answer, suggested that the question was likely directed at him, the source recalled.

By then, Cavenaugh and Jackson Walker were aware of the allegations of a Jones-Freeman relationship, according to documents the firm later filed in court. Van Deelen had received the explosive anonymous note 13 months before, and an email he sent to Cavenaugh right after receiving it had sparked an apparently cursory internal Jackson Walker investigation.

Freeman admitted that she and Jones had been in a relationship, but said it had ended, according to a draft letter the firm's then-general counsel wrote in August 2021 to an outside ethics consultant. "Elizabeth has confirmed that there is no current romantic relationship between herself and Judge Jones and that none is expected going forward. According to Elizabeth, there has been no romantic relationship since prior to the time in March 2020 when COVID caused so many of us to shift to remote work and virtual-only meetings. Judge Jones and Elizabeth each own their own homes; they do not and have not lived together."

The letter also described Freeman's critical role bringing in new business to the firm since she had joined in 2018. "Jackson Walker's debtor practice grew very substantially during this time, including cases in which we took an expansive local counsel role, with Kirkland Ellis acting as lead counsel, and cases in which we were lead debtor's counsel. Much of this work was in cases before either Judge Isgur or Judge Jones. This success was a team effort, involving other bankruptcy partners as well, but Elizabeth's leadership and contribution were recognized as integral."

The letter said Jackson Walker had requested that Freeman stop working on cases once they'd been filed with Jones for a two-year cooling off period from the date Freeman claimed their romance had ended. While the firm understood "that a close personal relationship remains" between Freeman and Jones, the letter said, "no further details were sought at that time."

Jackson Walker later learned Freeman hadn't been truthful. The firm's counsel at Norton Rose Fulbright — Greendyke, the former bankruptcy judge — said in a November pleading that in 2022 Jackson Walker had "learned, quite by accident, that Ms. Freeman's denial was possibly false or at least no longer true. When confronted again she initially denied the relationship but later on admitted to a current romantic relationship."

When Freeman retained counsel, she chose someone with close ties to her romantic partner: Tom Kirkendall, Jones' first boss in the legal profession and someone who described Isgur to Business Insider as "a wonderful law partner of mine for over 10 years" and "a dear friend." (Kirkendall declined to comment on other aspects of this story.)

Later that year, Jones called Cavenaugh to his chambers after a hearing and "insinuated" that he was "unhappy" with the firm's push to disclose the relationship, the firm said in another filing. Instead, Jackson Walker said, Jones handed Cavenaugh a piece of paper with a proposed disclosure that listed a "close personal relationship" with Freeman sandwiched between references to a "social friendship" with Polnick and with Graham. Jackson Walker, Jones insisted, "needs to make this happen," instructing the firm to file the disclosure in all future cases before him, according to the filing.

Finding the language "potentially misleading or untruthful," Jackson Walker said it negotiated Freeman's departure instead; she left the firm in December 2022 to set up her own practice.

But Jackson Walker appeared to keep knowledge of the relationship to itself. The firm's attorneys continued to recommend Freeman for legal work on cases before the Southern District.

"Jackson Walker has a strong and proven culture of ethics and integrity, and when we learned about this issue, we acted responsibly," Wilkinson, a spokesperson for the firm, said by email. "Our firm has been transparent, and our fulsome public filings speak for themselves."

Conflicts of interest appeared immediately. Within weeks, Freeman, serving as contract attorney to bond issuer GWG Holdings Inc., whose bankruptcy case was being handled by Jackson Walker, told Judge Isgur she took "some comfort" knowing that Jones was serving as mediator in the case, according to a December 16, 2022, transcript. During the mediation, in which Freeman participated, Jones suggested naming an independent trustee, according to public remarks by Mike Warner, a lawyer involved in the case.

Freeman was ultimately chosen by the creditors to oversee the wind-down trust in that case, a role expected to earn her $100,000 a month. Neither Jones, nor Jackson Walker, nor Freeman disclosed the relationship.

Containing the fallout

After the romantic relationship became public last October and Jones resigned, Isgur found himself once again at the center of a recusal matter. The estate of a creditor in 4E Brands, a manufacturer of hand sanitizer, whose bankruptcy case was transferred from Jones to Isgur, argued in October that Isgur was too close to Jones to rule on the case independently. The US Trustee, which oversees federal bankruptcy cases, supported the motion, arguing the case should never have been heard by Jones in the first place.

Yet in an apparent attempt to contain the fallout from Jones' ethics implosion, the Southern District's chief bankruptcy judge, Eduardo Rodriguez, ruled against the creditor. Isgur can continue to hear the case, he ruled, writing in the December 2023 opinion that lawyers for the creditor "failed to demonstrate much other than that former Judge Jones and Judge Isgur are close friends." (The creditor has filed an appeal.)

Rodriguez wrote that the estate had provided no evidence Isgur had "extrajudicial knowledge" of Jones' relationship or showed a "high degree of antagonism" in denying Van Deelen's March 2021 recusal motion — despite the magnitude of Isgur's missed opportunity.

In the Sorrento case, a litigant filed in February to remove the case from the Southern District of Texas. Again, the US Trustee lent its support, calling Sorrento's PO Box maneuver "a case of forum shopping and venue manipulation taken to a new and unprecedented extreme." Again, a Southern District judge shut it down. This time, Judge Lopez — a member of the complex cases committee turned judge — denied the motion. (Lopez had replaced Isgur when Isgur stepped down from the complex cases panel at the end of 2022; Isgur returned to the panel as Lopez's partner after Jones resigned in disgrace.)

The Southern District has stuck to the model Jones created, of sending every complex case to a panel of two judges, flouting new guidance issued by the Judicial Conference of the US in March that further promotes random case assignment to limit "the ability of litigants to effectively choose judges in certain cases by where they file a lawsuit."

Effectively choosing judges, and knowing with a high degree of clarity how those judges would rule, was the very essence of the Jones machine.

Meanwhile, the US Trustee's motions seeking to disgorge nearly $23 million in fees Jackson Walker collected in 33 cases in front of Jones has been bottled up. Those cases have been combined into a single proceeding, overseen at this stage by Rodriguez. That consolidation delays or even prevents what many would like: an impartial judge from outside the district hearing the cases and putting key players in the machine under oath.

The US Trustee began taking discovery on May 15, according to a scheduling order, but a settlement could halt that process and eliminate the risk that Cavenaugh, Freeman, Jones, or even Isgur would have to testify.

That might be fine with the Fifth Circuit.

Earlier this year, the circuit judges chose Alfredo Perez, a retired Weil, Gotshal & Manges bankruptcy attorney, to replace Jones. The pick was widely interpreted as a sign that the Fifth Circuit had come to enjoy Houston's recent success and didn't want it to end with Jones' career. Isgur told Bloomberg recently that he plans to give up handling complex cases, which would clear the way for Perez to take over. Former chief Southern District judge Richard Schmidt told Bloomberg that Perez's experience handling large cases would be a "godsend" for the district. "I can't imagine a better selection given the circumstances," he said.

Meanwhile, according to Debtwire, the Southern District of Texas' popularity has plunged. Through May 4, only 10% of the large Chapter 11 bankruptcy filings this year tracked by the data provider have been filed in the district, less than half what it was last year.

That's well short of Delaware's current share — 39%.

Additional reporting: Jack Newsham.

• MrBeast has become YouTube's most subscribed channel.
• The YouTube superstar beat out Indian music channel T-Series to take the crown.
• He posted on X that he had "finally avenged Pewdiepie," who was overtaken by T-Series in 2019. 

Mr Beast has finally taken the crown of YouTube's most subscribed channel.

Jimmy Donaldson, who runs the channel famous for its elaborate challenges and extravagant giveaways, posted on X that MrBeast had reached over 266 million subscribers, passing the popular Indian music channel T-Series. At the time of writing, his subscriber count had soared to 269 million. T-Series currently has around 266 million.

Business Insider contacted YouTube for comment but didn't immediately hear back.

"After 6 years we have finally avenged Pewdiepie," wrote the content creator on Sunday — a reference to YouTuber Felix Kjellberg, also known as PewDiePie, who held YouTube's number-one spot until he was overtaken by T-Series in 2019.

Overtaking T-Series marks an extraordinary rise for Donaldson, who has avoided the cycle of decline suffered by many other internet personalities.

MrBeast is known for his opulent videos, in which his followers compete for huge cash prizes.

He's been uploading videos to YouTube since 2012, and has since expanded into the food business with his range of Feastables chocolates and burger brand MrBeast Burger.

Donaldson later sued the company behind the MrBeast Burger chain, claiming that their "terrible quality" burgers were damaging his brand.

Donaldson also recently announced that he had struck a deal with Amazon to create a game show for Amazon Prime called "Beast Games" that will see 1,000 people compete for a prize of $5 million.

The YouTuber told Time Magazine in February that he earns $600 to $700 million a year — but that he doesn't think of himself as rich, as he reinvests everything he earns into his videos.

For the better part of a year in 2017, I could barely will myself to leave my house. I was experiencing a prolonged depressive episode with daily, sometimes hourly, panic attacks, and I couldn't see the point in continuing on.

Many things helped me survive. Talking it through in therapy several times a week was like opening a pressure valve in my brain — it kept me functioning just enough to get by. Medication had mixed results — I felt less panicky, but also less joy, excitement, and other essential emotions. Crying to friends provided temporary catharsis. But it wasn't until I discovered Muay Thai, a form of kickboxing, that it felt as if day-to-day life might provide something other than hopelessness.

Every other form of healing I'd tried had focused my mind — its disordered thoughts and supposed chemical imbalances. What I hadn't tried was getting out of it altogether. When firm but well-meaning coaches yelled at me to fix my form, do five more pushups, and kick the bag until my shins were red and nearly bleeding, it jump-started my nervous system. It made me feel human again.

It's a trope to say you should not tell a depressed person to go outside, take a walk, or go for a run. Doing so would dismiss the severity and reality of their illness, like telling someone with a broken arm to go play catch. To some extent, this is true: It's probably not the best idea to tell someone struggling deeply with mental illness to simply suck it up and walk it off. But it's also true that when someone encouraged me to get out there and use my body, it was precisely what I needed at my lowest moment. I ended up at the gym only because my friends repeatedly encouraged me to come with them to a class until one day I finally did. It wasn't a cure-all, but it made me believe that a solution might exist.

Many of our collective crises — depression, anxiety, unhealthiness, and loneliness — are made worse by the same thing: our tendency toward a sedentary, shut-in lifestyle. We live in a society that makes it extremely difficult to find the time and space to be active. An abundance of research shows that exercise is good for depression, and yet most of the time when I hear people talk about the mental-health crisis — on TikTok, on X, and in real life — it is rarely mentioned. In my experience, it's much more common to hear people talk about finding the right diagnosis, the right medication, and the right kind of therapy than it is to see people encouraging their loved ones to get the heck outside.

Many of us know exercise is good for us. All that's left is getting up off our asses.

The evidence is overwhelming that physical activity is good for both our bodies and our brains. A meta-review of studies that included 128,000 participants found that exercise of any kind significantly reduced symptoms of anxiety and depression. There are several theories as to why this is — exercise could increase the availability of neurotransmitters like dopamine in the brain, or it could help the brain form new neural pathways that are helpful to escaping cycles of depression. Either way, moving is good for our brains.

And the physical consequences of not moving enough are well-documented: heart disease, diabetes, high blood pressure, cancer, and a host of other maladies are linked to low physical activity. It is also bad for our mental health: A 2014 meta-analysis of more than 100,000 people found that increased sedentary time was positively correlated with rates of depression. A study from the beginning of COVID found that it was harder for people to stop being depressed if they spent too much time sitting.

Depression is a vicious cycle; it pits your brain against itself.

Despite the research, Americans have become less active over time. By one estimate, we're getting 27 fewer minutes of physical activity on average each day than we did 200 years ago. And for the past several decades, only about a quarter of American adults have met the recommended guidance of at least 20 minutes of exercise a day, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. One 2019 study found that we spent 82% of our time sedentary.

For kids, who need even more physical activity, the decline is stark. A 2022 Report Card on Physical Activity for Children and Youth gave the US a D- score, concluding that America, while never sufficiently supportive of physical activity, had become even worse at making the space and time for it. In 2007, an estimated 30% of adolescents completed the recommended 60 minutes of moderate-to-vigorous activity every day. By 2020 that number had fallen below 9%. Far fewer kids participate in team sports or walk or bike to school than did in the past, the report found. In Canada, as one study put it, pediatricians are so concerned about the decline in physical activity that they are encouraging parents to let kids engage in "thrilling and exciting forms of free play that involve uncertainty of outcome and a possibility of physical injury."

Instead of getting enough exercise, we're stuck lounging around on our phones. We've replaced real-world, bodily stimulation with mental stimulation from our screens. Meanwhile, our brains are rotting. In one study, nearly half of Americans ages 18 to 29 reported experiencing depression or anxiety in 2023. And over the past few decades, mental illness for teens and children has been on the rise.

Instead of looking at the situation and concluding that we all need to exercise more, some people are doing the opposite. Certain trends circulating social media emphasize not using your body: "hurkle-durkle," aka "bed rotting," involves wrapping yourself in comfy clothes and bed linens and staying in bed way past the time you should be waking up. But while there is a time and place for doing nothing and relaxing, Americans aren't actually getting more rest. Much of the country is chronically underslept.

In this trend, I see the logic of depression — the sense that nothing can or will change so there's no point in trying. Much of America, it seems, has given up on trying to be active.

Over time, my year from hell faded from my mind. But eventually, my exercise routine went with it. I didn't need to work out to stay sane, I thought, and so I stopped committing to it. Then I moved away from the Muay Thai gym and completely fell out of the routine. After a few years, the depression caught up to me. It wasn't as catastrophic as before, more of a persistent ennui that was hard to shake. I tried to figure it out in therapy. I tried to intellectualize it. I tried to excuse it: There was no point in trying anything, life was just inherently bad, the political state of the world was scary, the outside world was too expensive. It wasn't working.

I've gotten to the point where exercise — being in my body, sweating — is more important to me than more mind-oriented forms of therapy.

Then one day, early in the pandemic when I was prone to languishing in my room for hours on end, a roommate suggested I come to the tennis court with them for an hour. I was immediately hooked. Playing tennis with friends several times a week wasn't just fun, and it didn't just help get me into shape — it became a main focal point of my life. It provided me with a new relationship to my body and mind. I'd forgotten that exercise, while not a cure for my mental illness, was a necessary precursor to my mental wellness. After years of intellectualizing my sadness and discomfort, I once again had something that got me into my body, got my endorphins going, and, most important, got me to stop thinking about anything other than where to place the ball on the other side of the court.

Depression is a vicious cycle; it pits your brain against itself. When I was at my worst, the usual advice of "don't tell a depressed person what to do" wasn't helpful to me because I needed someone to help me break that cycle by telling me to stop repeating the same patterns. What saved me was friends who helped me get out of the house, suggested I join the gym with them, or encouraged me to do anything to get me out of my head.

I still sometimes get depressed. I still struggle with mental health. But I now feel as if I have a reliable way to help myself out of it. I've gotten to the point where exercise — being in my body, sweating — is more important to me than more mind-oriented forms of therapy. It's not a magic cure, but I now see it as a fundamental baseline. If I'm not moving, nothing will help my sad state.

SSRI prescriptions continue to rise and more people are seeking therapy, but depression and anxiety rates remain sky-high. If you've tried nearly everything else, why not simply get moving?

P.E. Moskowitz runs Mental Hellth, a newsletter on psychology, psychiatry, and modern society. They are also the author of the forthcoming book Rabbit Hole, a combination of memoir and reportage about the role drugs play in our happiness.

• Richard Grove is the 79-year-old CEO of Ink Inc. Public Relations and has no plans to retire soon.
• Grove founded his company 30 years ago and enjoys the competitive nature of public relations.
• He stays active with exercise, family visits, and long-distance motorcycle riding adventures.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Richard Grove, the 79-year-old CEO of Ink Inc. Public Relations in Kansas City, Missouri. It's been edited for length and clarity.

I'm the founder, chairman, and CEO of Ink Inc. Public Relations, and I'm 79 years old. I live on a 27-acre property in Kansas and am fortunate enough to be surrounded by friends and family who support my desire to continue to work.

My career began at Burson-Marsteller in New York City in 1968 and progressed through several other large PR firms and C-level stints on the corporate side. Thirty years ago, I founded Ink Inc. to go off on my own.

I still work every day and have no immediate plans to retire.

I'm still working because I still love my career

One of the things that keeps me going is having a competitive nature. Securing media can be a chase, and the chase never gets old. There's a lot of "no" in PR, and if you don't embrace the chase, you're lessening the chances to feel and earn on your client's behalf the satisfaction of succeeding.

I never really considered retiring in my 60s when many people typically do. However, when it becomes drudgery, or I find myself bored beyond recovery, which hasn't happened yet, I may.

I do look forward to turning over the reins of CEO management, which I've been doing gradually for the last year, so I might spend more time on the creative side of the business, including writing and pursuing prospective clients on a personal level. I don't have a set age when I plan to stop working entirely.

I'm not planning on retiring in the classic sense to some golf course

Most people experience fatigue, but I've never felt burned out. PR is a pressure-filled profession, a little more so at the top. Sometimes, clients, the media, or your employees can drive you a little nuts. I've been doing it for so long that I know these trials come in cycles and have a way of working themselves out with a little skill and patience.

I'm extremely fortunate that I continue to be in excellent health. I've lost close friends and family to various ailments and remain conscious of my fortuity. I'm committed to exercising and watching my diet. I still work out several times a week. I also keep my mind sharp and am always learning.

My kids and grandkids are extremely important in my life. Family is the real legacy we leave behind, not some business, successful or not. They live in California and Vietnam, but we share our lives with personal visits several times a year and weekly Zoom calls.

My age sometimes surprises people

I notice that people underestimate my age due to my demeanor and gait. Maintaining a sense of wonder and humor and literally walking fast so the young ones don't overtake me has been a valuable combination.

I often get comments about how fast I walk "for my age." This is a term I personally loathe, as if it's predetermined how one is supposed to act, or walk, at a certain point in life.

I have a passion for everyday life, even its ugly negative sides, and a sense of integrity, where I strive to do the right thing even though it might not always work out. My sense of humor about the absurdities around us is a big part of who I am.

I'm not typically asked how old I am, but on the rare occasion I'm asked, my response usually surprises the inquirer, which isn't a bad feeling. I believe it has less to do with my physical looks and more with how I present myself. Being active, interested, and having a sense of humor conveys a sense of youth.

I begin my workweek and day with exercise and watching the network morning shows

When I step away, I will miss the camaraderie and energy of the office the most.

Once I'm in the office, which I go to five days a week when I'm home, I scour The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and USA Today, looking for news that might be relevant to our clients or prospective clients.

I then review my emails and texts before starting my own correspondence and phone calls based on a yellow-pad schedule I've created. I then have internal meetings and Zoom calls with prospects.

I try to shut the office door no later than 5:30 p.m. or 6 p.m. because work-life balance is important to me. I often travel to meet with clients or prospects, as I believe the personal touch is far more effective than Zoom.

In my free time, I'm a passionate follower of my alma mater, the Kansas Jayhawks. Another true passion of mine is long-distance motorcycle riding. I've had memorable trips throughout Cuba, Vietnam, Mexico, and almost every corner of the US. Just like my career, as long as I have the ability, I'll continue exploring the open road.