AMARILLO, Texas (KAMR/KCIT) — Bill Bailey, President and CEO of Cenikor Foundation, announced that the Cenikor Foundation in Amarillo will stop substance use disorder inpatient services starting Se…

Investigations follow Reveal’s expose documenting nonprofit drug rehab centre’s use of patients as unpaid labour force.

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Shoshana Walter has reported on addiction and the impact of drug laws for almost 10 years. The reporting for this piece began at Reveal and is excerpted from her new book, Rehab, published by Simon & Schuster. On a sweltering August morning in 2015, Chris Koon walked out of the Grant Parish jail. Granny and Mom were waiting for him. There was little time to embrace. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the drug treatment facility, Cenikor, and he had just a few hours to pack and make it there, or else the judge could revoke his bond and send him back to jail. Granny took him home and Chris pulled on fresh clothes. He threw some T-shirts, jeans, and flip-flops into a suitcase. Along the way, they stopped at Burger King. Chris couldn’t wait for his first bite of non-jail food. The closer they got, though, the more anxious Chris felt. He knew Cenikor had to be better than jail, but what would that feel like? He knew in theory, but mentally, how quickly would this all pass? What would he miss? Would he be able to see his family? His friends? In jail, he’d gotten used to the monotony, the fights, the smells, the noise. Chris knew people there; he’d gone to the same high school as some of them. At Cenikor, he wouldn’t know a soul. And what if this didn’t work out, and he ended up going to prison anyway? Carrie, too, felt anxious. “Life is about hardship,” Carrie later said. “You gotta learn to endure.” If things got tough, would Chris bolt? She didn’t want that kind of mistake to derail his entire life. Chris swung his suitcase out of the car and walked up to the glass double doors. A woman buzzed them in and greeted them with a wide, unblinking smile. On the wall was a poster—“Rules of Cenikor”—with a big block of text underneath that Chris didn’t have time to read. The woman ushered Chris and his mom and granny down the hallway to the intake coordinator, who would process Chris into the program. The coordinator had been a participant himself not too long ago. Now, he was charged with guiding clients through the paperwork, visiting jails and courts, and selling the program. He was muscular, with a jowly square jaw and hair sculpted into a pompadour. Chris thought he looked sort of like a boxer dog who’d joined a boy band. Shoshana Walter has reported on addiction and the impact of drug laws for almost 10 years. The reporting for this piece began at Reveal and is excerpted from her new book, Rehab, published by Simon & Schuster. On a sweltering August morning in 2015, Chris Koon walked out of the Grant Parish jail. Granny and Mom were waiting for him. There was little time to embrace. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the drug treatment facility, Cenikor, and he had just a few hours to pack and make it there, or else the judge could revoke his bond and send him back to jail. Granny took him home and Chris pulled on fresh clothes. He threw some T-shirts, jeans, and flip-flops into a suitcase. Along the way, they stopped at Burger King. Chris couldn’t wait for his first bite of non-jail food. The closer they got, though, the more anxious Chris felt. He knew Cenikor had to be better than jail, but what would that feel like? He knew in theory, but mentally, how quickly would this all pass? What would he miss? Would he be able to see his family? His friends? In jail, he’d gotten used to the monotony, the fights, the smells, the noise. Chris knew people there; he’d gone to the same high school as some of them. At Cenikor, he wouldn’t know a soul. And what if this didn’t work out, and he ended up going to prison anyway? Carrie, too, felt anxious. “Life is about hardship,” Carrie later said. “You gotta learn to endure.” If things got tough, would Chris bolt? She didn’t want that kind of mistake to derail his entire life. Chris swung his suitcase out of the car and walked up to the glass double doors. A woman buzzed them in and greeted them with a wide, unblinking smile. On the wall was a poster—“Rules of Cenikor”—with a big block of text underneath that Chris didn’t have time to read. The woman ushered Chris and his mom and granny down the hallway to the intake coordinator, who would process Chris into the program. The coordinator had been a participant himself not too long ago. Now, he was charged with guiding clients through the paperwork, visiting jails and courts, and selling the program. He was muscular, with a jowly square jaw and hair sculpted into a pompadour. Chris thought he looked sort of like a boxer dog who’d joined a boy band. Advertisement Granny and his mom stayed there with Chris while Chris learned about the program and filled out paperwork. Cenikor had been around for more than 40 years, the coordinator explained, and had one of the highest success rates in the country. The program provided weekly one-on-one counseling sessions with licensed counselors and group therapy three times per week. They’d find Chris a job and he’d be able to save money in the program. Some graduates had enough saved up to buy flat-screen televisions or new cars. It sounded really good to Carrie. She liked that the program would help Chris get established in a job and that he could save money for when he left. Cenikor had multiple facilities in Texas and Louisiana, including detox and outpatient programs. Its facilities were licensed by regulators in both states. They had accreditation from the Commission on Accreditation of Rehabilitation Facilities, the nonprofit body that provides voluntary certification for rehab facilities. Cenikor’s website touted its program as “one of the oldest and most successful substance abuse treatment centers in the nation.” The coordinator told Chris he had spent years in prison in Texas. He explained that Cenikor was going to be a hell of a ride. He knew all the games people play, and he wasn’t going to let Chris just sit on his butt. He was proof positive the program worked. “We don’t do time here,” Chris recalled the coordinator had said. “We work on ourselves. And I’ma make sure you work on yourself.” Chris wanted to get better, he really did. He wanted to be the person his mom and Granny imagined he could be. He signed the documents and said his goodbyes, then he returned to the coordinator, who began walking Chris to his room. Content retrieved from: https://slate.com/life/2025/08/rehab-addiction-substance-abuse-cenikor-book.html .

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Chris Koon didn't read the fine print. Sitting in the Cenikor Baton Rouge rehab center's intake office in 2015, flanked by his mom and grandmother, he signed where told. "A lot of it read like legalese," writes Shoshana Walter in "Rehab: An American Scandal" (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 12). "Incomprehensible but also innocuous, like something...

Chris Koon didn’t read the fine print. Sitting in the Cenikor Baton Rouge rehab center’s intake office in 2015, flanked by his mom and grandmother, he signed where told. “A lot of it read like legalese,” writes Shoshana Walter in “Rehab: An American Scandal” (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 12). “Incomprehensible but also innocuous, like something you might see before downloading an app on your phone.” Koon felt lucky.

“Cenikor has turned patients struggling with addiction into a pool of unpaid, forced labor," according to one of the suits.