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The private prison company’s leaders are bullish on Trump and ICE. Here’s what they left out of their quarterly earnings call.

By Jesse Fox Mayshark

“ICE was our first customer 43 years ago, and has been our largest customer for over a decade. From the end of 2024 through the end of 2025 ice populations in our care increased 5,903 individuals, to just over 16,000 or 58%.” — Patrick Swindle, President and COO of CoreCivic, in Feb. 12 quarterly earnings call.

CoreCivic is based in Brentwood, Tennessee. It was founded in Nashville in 1983 as the Corrections Corporation of America. It is one of the two largest private prison companies in the United States. The other is the GEO Group, based in Boca Raton, Florida.

It is not exactly a coincidence that for-profit prisons have taken root most readily in the South, with its long history of convict leasing and prison labor. In CoreCivic’s case, the connection is direct. One of its co-founders, Terrell Don Hutto, got his start in the late 1960s working at Ramsey Prison Farm, run by the state of Texas on land southwest of Houston that had formerly been home to slave plantations.

Here’s how reporter Shane Bauer, author of the 2018 investigative book American Prison, characterized Hutto’s experiences there:

“Mostly black convicts were forced to pick cotton from dawn to dusk for no pay. It was 1967 and the Beatles’ ‘All you need is love’ was a hit, but the men in the fields sang songs with lyrics like ‘Old Master don’t you whip me, I’ll give you half a dollar.’ Hutto’s family lived on the plantation and even had a “house boy,” an unpaid convict who served them.”

Hutto went on to work in state prison systems in Arkansas and Virginia. 

He started Corrections Corporation of America with partners Tom Beasley and Richard Crants. Beasley was a lawyer and former chair of the Tennessee Republican Party. Crants was a Nashville businessman who had worked in real estate and television, and had also been a roommate of Beasley’s at West Point.

CCA pioneered the private prison model, contracting with both federal and state governments to house and manage prison populations at a set daily rate per inmate. It grew quickly, and by 1998 it made Fortune’s list of the 100 fastest-growing companies in the United States.

Immigration detention has been part of its portfolio from the start. Its very first contract was with what was then called the Immigration and Naturalization Service, to operate a hastily remodeled hotel in Houston as a detention center.

The company has also for decades attracted controversy, criticism and lawsuits from prisoners and their families over allegations of abusive conditions. By the end of the second Obama administration, in 2016, public opposition to private prisons had grown to the point that the Department of Justice said it would phase out the federal use of them.

That same year, conscious of the toll of years of negative publicity, the Corrections Corporation of America rebranded itself as CoreCivic. Company officials said the name was intended to reflect a broader scope of services — but in reality, detention remains their primary business.

President Trump reversed the Obama Department of Justice order during his first term, which was a boom time for private prisons. But when President Biden took office in 2021, he issued an executive order to end federal private prison contracts — with a major exception. Although he had promised immigrant rights advocates that he would also end for-profit immigration detention, he did not. 

In fact, when New Jersey passed a law in 2023 that would have shut down a CoreCivic immigration detention center in the state, the Biden administration supported CoreCivic in a successful lawsuit to keep it open. 

Of course, the second Trump administration has been a whole new dawn for immigration detention. Investors understood it. CoreCivic’s stock price leapt 59 percent after Trump’s election in 2024, and Geo Group’s saw a nearly 100 percent rise.

By the end of 2025, the federal government was keeping more than 70,000 immigrants in detention facilities — the most ever, up from about 45,000 at the end of the Biden administration.

Which brings us to the February 12th earnings conference call, a standard quarterly event for publicly traded companies to report their financial performance and outlook for the future. 

On the call were CoreCivic President and COO Patrick Swindle — who was promoted to that post in December 2024 — and Chief Financial Officer David Garfinkle.

They had good news to share. The company’s total revenue for 2025 was $2.2 billion, up 13 percent from the year before. And its earnings before interest, taxes, depreciation and amortization — a favored Wall Street metric known as EBITDA — was up 11 percent.

Even better from the company’s point of view, the year ended on a strong note. 4th quarter revenue was up 26 percent from the previous year, reflecting a surge in immigrant detentions as ICE hired thousands of new agents.

At the end of 2025, CoreCivic was holding nearly a quarter of all Immigration and Customs Enforcement detainees.

Swindle began the call with a report, which he introduced in the dispassionate language of corporate finance. If you didn’t know who he was talking about, it could be nearly any company traded on the stock exchange.

He then moved into discussion of CoreCivic’s actual business. But you’ll notice something here and throughout the call. What CoreCivic actually does — lock people up in cells and keep them there against their will — is never referred to except obliquely. The discussion is of “facilities” and “occupancy” and “beds” — but rarely of people.

Swindle reports on what he calls the “activation” of four prisons that had been closed, some because of the Biden administration’s move away from private prisons, at least for U.S. citizens, and others because they had lost state contracts. The Diamondback Correctional Facility in Watonga, Oklahoma, had been sitting empty since 2010. It was built to hold inmates from Arizona, until it ended its practice of sending prisoners out of state.

The California City center that Swindle mentioned deserves some particular notice. It is in the middle of California’s Mojave Desert, miles from any town. CoreCivic built it in 1998 and ran it as a federal prison until 2013. When that contract ended, the state of California leased the property and ran it as a state prison with its own staff until 2023.

Still owned by CoreCivic, it then sat empty until last year, when the company reopened it under contract with ICE. Since then, it has generated numerous reports of abuse and neglect.

In a New Yorker article in January 2026 with the headline, “The Cruel Conditions of ICE’s Mojave Desert Detention Center,” reporter Oren Peleg wrote that within months of reopening, the center became notorious for neglecting the medical care of its detainees.

After talking to many currently or formerly held there, he wrote, “These detainees reported adequate care at other ICE detention and processing facilities they were previously held at, and described the California City facility as unique in its mistreatment of those held in its custody.” 

Peleg said detainees told him about “extremely delayed appointments with health-care professionals, the denial of medications and treatment, experiences with unsafe and unsanitary living conditions, and a general antagonism by medical staff toward detainees.”

According to the article, one detainee with a bleeding ulcer was refused a request to see a gastro-intestinal specialist and told that he should “go back to your own country” if he wanted medical care.

In November, the Prison Law Office, the ACLU, and other organizations filed a class-action lawsuit against ICE and the Department of Homeland Security over conditions at the center. In the filing, detainees refer to California City as a “torture chamber” and “hell on earth.”

Swindle obviously didn’t think any of that was worth mentioning to investors.

He did talk a bit more about the fourth reactivated vacant prison, which is in Leavenworth, Kansas. CoreCivic was ready to receive prisoners there, but there had been a hang-up.

So, about that. What Swindle is calling Midwest Regional here was formerly known as the Leavenworth Detention Center. It holds sort of a special place in the CoreCivic universe. In 1992, it was the first private prison opened under a federal agency contract, with the U.S. Marshals Service.

The prison expanded over the decades, from holding 460 people to a little over 11 hundred. It also accumulated a growing number of complaints about safety and living conditions.

In 2021, the ACLU sent a letter to the Biden administration detailing reports of violence involving both prisoners and guards. It urged the administration not to renew CoreCivic’s contract — and it didn’t.

When the contract expired at the end of that year, remaining prisoners were transferred and the prison was closed. Last year, CoreCivic contracted with ICE to return it to service as an immigrant detention center.

But there was local pushback, and a lawsuit forced CoreCivic to apply to the city for a new special use permit. That’s the discussion Swindle referred to, which is still unresolved.

Swindle then moved on to broader discussion of what he called “the business climate.” Which is to say, the climate of the business of locking up immigrants.

Looking forward, Swindle said he sees ongoing opportunities. CoreCivic still has more vacant prisons just waiting to be reopened. There are also some open beds at already operating prisons. Swindle assured his shareholders that the company is ready if and when ICE calls.

This next short clip is interesting mostly because it’s one of the few times where Swindle acknowledges the people his company imprisons as something more than part of a so-called market demand. The word “humane” stands out here — but then also listen to all of the other things that come after it.

The best value to the government. The best value to taxpayers. It’s a good reminder of who is actually paying for all of this — whose money CoreCivic is using to bolster its bottom line and pay its executive salaries and lobby for more public contracts.

It’s our money. It is even the money of the very people they are incarcerating. One study found that undocumented immigrants paid an estimated $97 billion in combined federal, state and local taxes in 2022. Are they getting the “best value” from their tax dollars going to pay CoreCivic? Are we?

In making a point about how quickly the company moved to take advantage of ICE opportunities in 2025, Swindle talked about yet another facility: the Dilley Immigration Processing Center in Dilley, Texas. It is a family detention center, where parents can stay together with children.

As Swindle noted in the call — and as a reminder that mass immigrant detention has been a bipartisan policy — it was originally commissioned and opened in 2014 under the Obama administration. Swindle described it with pride.

I did go and take the virtual guided tour. It shows playgrounds, classrooms, a medical clinic, a room where children can play video games. The sleeping quarters are rows of bunkbeds where, it says, families are kept together. Right next to other complete strangers, of course.

But there’s a funny thing about the photos in the tour — there are no people in them. They show pristine, empty rooms. This is partly for legal privacy reasons, I suppose. But the absence feels deliberate.

As if CoreCivic knows that the illusion it is trying to present of a professional, friendly place — like a children’s hospital, maybe — would be harder to sustain if you could see the people, and especially the children, being held prisoner there.

Swindle mentioning the Dilley center at all took me aback. Because Dilley had been very prominent in the news in the days before the earnings call.

It was where 5-year-old Liam Ramos — the boy in the blue bunny hat — was taken with his father when they were arrested by federal agents in Minneapolis. Photos of Liam being detained made international news and fueled public outrage. He and his father were released on February 1st after a federal judge ruled that agents hadn’t followed correct procedures in detaining them.

Then, on February 9th, the nonprofit media site ProPublica published a report about other children at Dilley. It included drawings and letters recounting their fears and sadness at being held at the center.

A 14-year-old girl from Colombia wrote, “The workers treat the residents unhumanly, verbally and I don’t want to imging how they would act if they where unsupervised.”

Another Colombian girl, who is 9 years old, drew a picture of her and her mother wearing their detainee ID badges. She wrote, “I am not happy, please get me out of here.”

Swindle, of course, did not mention any of this to his shareholders.

What he did talk about was the money that came from all of it.

Swindle wrapped up his presentation with a bit of corporate rah-rah that could have come from any company, again using words like “core portfolio” to refer to large prison complexes holding thousands of people.

He then passed off to CFO David Garfinkle, who provided the meat of what investors probably really wanted to hear about — revenues, profits, and growth projections. This particular clip caught my ear not for the blizzard of financial jargon but for one word that he used to describe CoreCivic’s services.

“Solutions.” If you ran a company that specialized in mass detention of people in prison facilities that meet the literal dictionary definition of concentration camps, maybe you’d be careful about referring to what you offer as “solutions.” Or maybe not.

The call next moved into questions from investors, which like the rest of the discussion felt weirdly disconnected from the actual business at hand. There were queries about capacity, liquidity, stock buybacks. But a couple of callers showed at least some awareness of headlines outside the business pages.

One question came from Greg Gibas, a senior research analyst at Northland Securities — an investment firm based in, of all places, Minneapolis. And Gibas did have questions about the goings-on in the city — but mostly a concern that comments by Trump administration Border Czar Tom Homan might represent a reduction in ICE detentions, and therefore fewer bodies in CoreCivic’s care.

Swindle was swift to reassure him that Minneapolis was an unusual operation because of its size, and reducing its scope shouldn’t mean fewer detainees nationwide — or what he refers to as “pipeline opportunity.”

Then there was the call from Joe Gomes of Noble Capital. The audio on Gomes’ line is a little weak, but I wanted to play this exchange because of the upbeat tone and tenor of Gomes’ questions as he asked Swindle to estimate how much financial “upside” there could be if CoreCivic actually fills all of its currently vacant facilities and beds.

He also expressed concern that ICE has been a little slower than expected in ramping up the volume of its detentions, and asked for reassurance that the pace will pick up. Swindle explained that ICE is a “complex ecosystem.”

This runs a couple of minutes as there’s back and forth between the two of them.

Listening to the call, with its blasé boosterism and revenue growth projections, it was hard for me not to think of Hannah Arendt’s endlessly quoted observation about Adolf Eichmann representing what she called “the banality of evil.”

The phrase is especially tempting because Eichmann played an instrumental role in organizing the mass deportation of Jews to concentration and extermination camps. 

But it also seems in some ways insufficient. At his war crimes trial in 1961, Eichmann’s defense was that he was just following orders within a rigid bureaucracy. (This was of course not persuasive, and he was hanged for his crimes.)

CoreCivic and its investors aren’t following orders. They’re enthusiastically seeking contracts. Nobody is making them do it.

They’re pursuing year-over-year quarterly gains. They’re chasing EBIDTA. They’re speculating about blue skies and upsides to their business model. They’re promising stable occupancy by mid-26.

CoreCivic does not run death camps, it’s true — although people do die in their custody. It runs the Trousdale Turner Correctional Center in Hartsville, Tennessee, for example — a state prison where 98 prisoners died between 2019 and 2022.

The number was high enough that even Tennessee’s Republican Legislature passed a bill that will reduce Trousdale’s population — and therefore its revenues — by 10 percent any time the death rate is more than twice the average at the state’s publicly owned prisons.

But even if the deaths in CoreCivic’s detention centers are more a side effect than a mandate, there’s no escaping the brutal calculus at the heart of the business. CoreCivic does best when the government is rounding up more people and needs someone to keep them locked up. 

Liam Ramos, the boy in the bunny hat, was kept prisoner by CoreCivic for 10 days. CoreCivic is paid about $165 a day for each detainee. 

U.S. District Judge Fred Biery, who ordered the release of Liam and his father, had harsh words for ICE and the Trump administration’s approach to mass deportation. In his order, he wrote, “The case has its genesis in the ill-conceived and incompetently-implemented government pursuit of daily deportation quotas, apparently even if it requires traumatizing children.”

He added, “Observing human behavior confirms that for some among us, the perfidious lust for unbridled power and the imposition of cruelty in its quest know no bounds and are bereft of human decency. And the rule of law be damned.”

His order made clear that neither Liam nor his father should have been arrested in the first place, much less shipped from Minnesota to a detention center in West Texas. But they were still worth about $1,650 apiece to CoreCivic.

That money, and money from tens of thousands of other people torn from their families and communities, will show up in the company’s next quarterly earnings.

(Adapted from a portion of this week’s HEADLIGHTS podcast.)

Many Southern state legislatures have ramped up attacks on diversity efforts over the past five years, as they have become favorite targets of conservative commentators and culture warriors. These attacks prefigured and in many ways laid the groundwork for the broader assault on DEI currently being waged at the federal level by President Donald Trump and his appointees.

The 2025 legislative session has brought a fresh round of anti-DEI bills across the South, many of which share a central irony — or perhaps it’s more accurate to just call it cynicism. In seeking to limit efforts to foster diversity and reduce socioeconomic disparities, they are using the language of the civil rights movement to attack its core achievements.

Most conservative-dominated states in the South have seen a range of bills in recent years aimed at public schools, universities and state agencies, all alleging in various ways that any efforts to recognize or remedy the legacies of legally enforced discrimination in the South — or in some cases even to discuss that history — amount to forms of discrimination themselves.

This year’s statehouse sessions have been no different, although not every anti-DEI bill passed.

In Georgia, for example, the state Senate approved a bill that would have placed a raft of restrictions on how schools talk about race and gender and American history. Among other things, it would have forbidden public schools and universities to promote or maintain “any programs or activities that advocate for diversity, equity, and inclusion.”

As examples for colleges and universities, it restricted any institutional support  for a laundry list of terms conservative lawmakers apparently find offensive, including:

“unconscious or implicit bias, cultural appropriation, allyship, gender ideology or theory, microaggressions, group marginalization, Antiracism, systemic oppression, social justice, intersectionality, neopronouns, heteronormativity, disparate impact, racial privilege, sexual privilege, or any similar or related formulation of these concepts.”

In other words, the state where Martin Luther King Jr. was born into a legal system of racial oppression was proposing to make it legally hazardous for universities to talk about systemic racial oppression.

But after clearing the Senate in the final days of the session, the bill stalled in the state House, which was scrambling to finish its own priorities. It could well return next year, of course.

Another anti-DEI bill is moving through the Louisiana Legislature, hitting on some of the same themes as the Georgia bill. It would restrict any hiring preferences in state agencies based on race, sex, gender identity or sexual orientation.

It would also restrict state universities from mandating course content dealing with certain topics — again, including a list of conservative rhetorical bugbears:

“​​Instructional content that relates to critical race theory, white fragility, white guilt, systemic racism, institutional racism, anti-racism, systemic bias, implicit bias, intersectionality, gender identity, allyship, race-based reparations, or race-based privilege.”

The bill does have language protecting individual faculty members’ rights to shape their own curriculum and choose their own instructional materials. 

It also says that it will still be legal to teach about U.S. historical events including slavery, the forced removal of Native Americans and Japanese-American internment during the 2nd World War.

Still, as in Georgia, it is remarkable to see a state like Louisiana take issue with concepts like systemic or institutional racism.

New Orleans was one of the national centers of human trafficking in enslaved people up until the Civil War. It was also home to Homer Plessy, famous as the losing plaintiff in the case of Plessy vs. Ferguson, in which the U.S. Supreme Court gave its blessing to Jim Crow regimes of racial segregation. It is hard to think of more obvious examples of systemic and institutional racism.

That bill is up for a vote this week in the Louisiana State Senate.

In Tennessee, meanwhile, the state’s General Assembly passed a set of bills in April aiming to “dismantle DEI” in state and local governments and education systems.

Tennessee had already passed versions of curricular restrictions in previous years, forbidding the teaching of what it calls “divisive concepts” around race and gender.

This year’s bills focused more specifically on hiring practices, prohibiting the consideration of race, gender or other personal characteristics in employment decisions. They also forbid state or local governments or schools from maintaining departments or programs to promote diversity, equity and inclusion.

The Texas Legislature is considering a bill much like Tennessee’s, although it is limited in scope to the state’s public schools. It forbids the consideration of race, sex or ethnicity in hiring decisions, or the assigning of diversity, equity and inclusion duties to school employees.

That bill passed the Texas Senate and is awaiting a vote in the state House.

If all of these bills sound fairly similar, so does the rhetoric surrounding them. 

The Republican legislators who have sponsored the bills uniformly depict them not as attacks on diversity but as protection against state-mandated discrimination.

In Georgia, state Senator Max Burns said that his anti-DEI legislation should be embraced by people who want to see racial equality.

According to the Georgia Recorder, on the Senate floor Burns said, “DEI is the antithesis of equality. If you believe in equality, if you believe in equal opportunity, this bill does not strip you of that. It enhances it.”

The sponsor of the Louisiana bill, state Representative Emily Chenevert of Baton Rouge, responded to criticism of her bill from other lawmakers by saying, “This is not divisive. This is protecting every Louisianian. This is about equality for all.” 

And in Tennessee, state Representative Aron Maberry said his “Dismantle DEI” bills were similar to past efforts to fight workplace prejudices. “If discrimination in the past was wrong, and I agree, it was; it is, then discrimination today is wrong,” he said.

And here’s where the rhetoric around all of these bills becomes tricky. Like Maberry, the bills’ sponsors — and conservative anti-DEI pundits and activists in general — suggest either explicitly or implicitly that they are fighting against some kind of widespread patterns of discrimination under the guise of DEI programs.

They allege that diversity, equity and inclusion efforts — which can include everything from workplace anti-discrimination training to job fairs that aim to reach traditionally underrepresented groups — actually end up promoting a different kind of bigotry.

They rarely say it explicitly, but what they mean is that majority groups or groups that have traditionally been overrepresented in government workplaces or in leadership positions — which is to say white people in general, and white men in particular, and especially straight white men — are now themselves victims of discrimination.

The problem with that assertion, and perhaps the reason it is rarely stated quite so directly, is that there is very little evidence to support it.

The reality is that any kind of discrimination in hiring on the basis of race, ethnicity or gender is already illegal throughout the United States — and has been since the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

That act, of course, was one of the crowning achievements of the Civil Rights Movement — and was fiercely opposed by white Southern conservatives. The same political demographic that is now passing their own versions of anti-discrimination laws, but with a very different class of alleged victims in mind.

Like everyone else in the country, white men are already protected against employment discrimination on the basis of race or gender. Like everyone else, if they believe they have been discriminated against, they can file complaints with the federal Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.

And some of them do! Just … not that many.

A large study in 2019 found that about 25 percent of Black women said they had experienced some form of workplace discrimination, compared to 18 percent of Black men and 16 percent of white women. Only 11 percent of white men said they had.

Meanwhile, a 2023 study of U.S. Fortune 500 companies found that 59 percent of company executives were white men, even though they make up only about 30 percent of the total U.S. population.

20 percent of Fortune 500 executives were white women, 14 percent were men of color, and just 6 percent were women of color. 

The breakdown of company board members and people in corporate governance followed nearly identical patterns: Over and over in the American workforce, white men remain overrepresented in top-tier positions and underrepresented in reporting incidents of being discriminated against.

It may not surprise you to know that another place white men are overrepresented is among Republican state legislators in the South.

In Georgia, for example, 96 percent of the Republicans in the General Assembly are white, and 85 percent are men.

In Tennessee, 86 percent of the GOP supermajority in the Legislature are white men. 

In other words, these bills alleging discrimination against white men are being written and passed by Republican majorities that are overwhelmingly — and disproportionately — made up of white men.

That’s why the political minority parties in Southern state houses — which also include most of their legislators who are women and people of color — have tended to see the anti-DEI movement’s true aims as perpetuating racial inequities rather than fighting them.

They allege that what the bills are really trying to do is create chilling effects that will make people in state agencies and schools think twice about hiring anyone who isn’t a white man, and afraid to discuss any kind of racial or gender disparities.

In Georgia, Democratic Senate Minority Leader Harold Jones the 2nd, who is Black, accused the state’s Republicans of wanting to “take Georgia backwards — backwards to days when people did not have full rights.”

In Louisiana, State Representative Edmond Jordan said the state’s anti-DEI legislation was “an anti-Black bill,” and his fellow Democratic State Representative Candace Newell of New Orleans said, “This is the most racially oppressive piece of legislation that I think I’ve seen.” 

Jordan and Newell are both Black. So is Tennessee state Representative Antonio Parkinson, a Democrat from Memphis, who said during debate on the “Dismantle DEI” bills that Republicans had created a false narrative around DEI.

“It is simply to show you that we exist,” he said. “It removes the invisible cloak from veterans, disabled individuals, Black people, women and others. We exist.”

And that is maybe the most irrational thing about the wave of attacks on diversity in the South — most of these states are pretty diverse. Non-White residents make up one-third or more of the population in 9 out of 12 Southern states. 

In Texas, non-Hispanic white people make up only an estimated 39 percent of the total state population. In Georgia, it’s 49 percent, and in Louisiana it’s 56 percent. Even Tennessee, one of the whiter states in the country, has a nonwhite population of nearly 30 percent. 

And like the U.S. overall, we’re getting progressively less white. Every Southern state has become more racially and ethnically diverse over the past 30 years. Whatever else the anti-DEI movement accomplishes, it doesn’t seem likely to change that.

— Jesse Fox Mayshark