Sonya Massey shooting prompts Illinois law requiring disclosure of police recruits' backgrounds

SPRINGFIELD, Ill. (AP) — Illinois law now requires that prospective police officers approve the release of personal background records in response to last summer's shooting of Sonya Massey, an unarmed Black woman, in her home by a sheriff's deputy who had responded to her call for help.

Gov. JB Pritzker on Tuesday signed the legislation, which requires disclosure of everything from job performance reports to nonpublic settlement agreements. It resulted from indiscretions that came to light in the background of Sean Grayson, the ex-sheriff's deputy charged with first-degree murder in the case.

Pritzker, surrounded by Massey's family in the state Capitol, said the first-in-the-nation law should serve as an example for other states as he let Massey's “spirit guide us to action.”

“Our justice system needs to be built on trust,” the Democrat said. “Communities should be able to trust that when they call the police to their home, the responding officer will be well-trained and without a history of bias or misconduct, and police officers should be able to trust that they are serving alongside responsible and capable individuals.”

The legislation was sponsored by Sen. Doris Turner, a Springfield Democrat and friend of the Masseys, and Chicago Democratic Rep. Kam Buckner, who noted that Thursday marks the 117th anniversary of the three-day Race Riot in Springfield that led to the founding a year later of the NAACP.

Massey, 36, was a single mother of two teenagers who had a strong religious faith and struggled with mental health issues. In the early morning of July 6, 2024, she called 911 to report a suspected prowler outside her home in the capital city of Springfield, 201 miles (343 kilometers) southwest of Chicago.

Grayson and another deputy searched but found no one. Inside Massey's house, confusion over a pot of hot water Massey picked up and her curious response to Grayson — “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus” — which the deputy said he took to mean she wanted to kill him, prompted him to fire on Massey, hitting her right below the eye.

The 31-year-old Grayson was 14 months into his career as a Sangamon County Sheriff’s deputy when he answered Massey's call. His arrest two weeks later prompted an examination of his record, which showed several trouble spots.

In his early 20s, he was convicted of driving under the influence twice within a year, the first of which got him kicked out of the Army. He had four law enforcement jobs — mostly part-time — in six years. One past employer noted that he was sloppy in handling evidence and called him a braggart. Others said he was impulsive.

Those seeking policing jobs must sign a waiver allowing past employers to release unredacted background materials, including job performance reports, physical and psychological fitness-for-duty reports, civil and criminal court records, and, even otherwise nonpublic documents such as nondisclosure or separation agreements.

“It isn’t punitive to any police officer. The same kind of commonsense legislation needs to be done nationwide,” James Wilburn, Massey’s father, said. “People should not be able to go from department to department and their records not follow them.”

The hiring agency may see the contents of documents sealed by court order by getting a judge's approval, and court action is available to compel a former employer to hand over records.

“Several departments need to pick up their game and implement new procedures, but what’s listed here (in the law) is what should be minimally done in a background check,” said Kenny Winslow, executive director of the Illinois Association of Chiefs of Police, who helped negotiate the proposal.

Ironically, no. Most of what was revealed about Grayson after his arrest was known to Sangamon County Sheriff Jack Campbell, who was forced to retire early because of the incident. Campbell was aware of Grayson's shortcomings and, as a result, made him repeat the state's 16-week police training course.

Even an incident that didn't surface until six weeks after the shooting — a dash-cam video of Grayson, working as a deputy in a nearby county, ignoring an order to halt a high-speed chase and then hitting a deer with his squad car — would not have disqualified him, Campbell said at the time.

“We can't decide who they do or don't hire, but what we can do is put some parameters in place so that the information will be there and the right decision can be made,” Buckner said.

Grayson, who also faces charges of aggravated battery with a firearm and official misconduct, has pleaded not guilty and is scheduled to go to trial in October.

Publicity persuaded Judge Ryan Cadagin to move the proceeding from Springfield to Peoria, 73 miles (117 kilometers) to the north. The incident has garnered international news coverage, prompted activists' rallies, and led to a $10 million civil court settlement.

Gov. JB Pritzker speaks to reporters in the state Capitol, Tuesday, Aug. 12, 2025, in Springfield, Ili. (John O'Connor/AP)

Rep. Kam Buckner, D-Chicago, talks to reporters at the state Capitol, Tuesday, Aug. 12, 2025, in Springfield, Ili. (John O'Connor/AP)

FILE - This January 2025 booking photo provided by the Macon County jail shows Sean Grayson, a former Sangamon County Sheriff's deputy who is charged with first-degree murder in the shooting death of Sonya Massey in Springfield, Ill. (Macon County Jail via AP,File)

FILE - Donna Massey, center right, wipes tears from her face as she listens to Rev. Al Sharpton, right, speak during a press conference Tuesday, July 30, 2024, in Chicago, over the shooting death of her daughter Sonya, who was allegedly killed by Illinois sheriff's deputy Sean Grayson. (Tyler Pasciak LaRiviere/Chicago Sun-Times via AP)

Sen. Doris Turner, D-Springfield, talks to reporters at the state Capitol, Tuesday, Aug. 12, 2025, in Springfield, Ili. (John O'Connor/AP)

Donna Massey, mother of Sonya Massey, listens to Gov. JB Pritzker speak to reporters in the state Capitol, Tuesday, Aug. 12, 2025, in Springfield, Ili. (John O'Connor/AP)

MADRID (AP) — Venezuelans living in Spain are watching the events unfold back home with a mix of awe, joy and fear.

Some 600,000 Venezuelans live in Spain, home to the largest population anywhere outside the Americas. Many fled political persecution and violence but also the country’s collapsing economy.

A majority live in the capital, Madrid, working in hospitals, restaurants, cafes, nursing homes and elsewhere. While some Venezuelan migrants have established deep roots and lives in the Iberian nation, others have just arrived.

Here is what three of them had to say about the future of Venezuela since U.S. forces deposed Nicolás Maduro.

David Vallenilla woke up to text messages from a cousin on Jan. 3 informing him “that they invaded Venezuela.” The 65-year-old from Caracas lives alone in a tidy apartment in the south of Madrid with two Daschunds and a handful of birds. He was in disbelief.

“In that moment, I wanted certainty,” Vallenilla said, “certainty about what they were telling me.”

In June 2017, Vallenilla’s son, a 22-year-old nursing student in Caracas named David José, was shot point-blank by a Venezuelan soldier after taking part in a protest near a military air base in the capital. He later died from his injuries. Video footage of the incident was widely publicized, turning his son’s death into an emblematic case of the Maduro government’s repression against protesters that year.

After demanding answers for his son’s death, Vallenilla, too, started receiving threats and decided two years later to move to Spain with the help of a nongovernmental organization.

On the day of Maduro’s capture, Vallenilla said his phone was flooded with messages about his son.

“Many told me, ‘Now David will be resting in peace. David must be happy in heaven,’” he said. “But don't think it was easy: I spent the whole day crying.”

Vallenilla is watching the events in Venezuela unfold with skepticism but also hope. He fears more violence, but says he has hope the Trump administration can effect the change that Venezuelans like his son tried to obtain through elections, popular protests and international institutions.

“Nothing will bring back my son. But the fact that some justice has begun to be served for those responsible helps me see a light at the end of the tunnel. Besides, I also hope for a free Venezuela.”

Journalist Carleth Morales first came to Madrid a quarter-century ago when Hugo Chávez was reelected as Venezuela's president in 2000 under a new constitution.

The 54-year-old wanted to study and return home, taking a break of sorts in Madrid as she sensed a political and economic environment that was growing more and more challenging.

“I left with the intention of getting more qualified, of studying, and of returning because I understood that the country was going through a process of adaptation between what we had known before and, well, Chávez and his new policies," Morales said. "But I had no idea that we were going to reach the point we did.”

In 2015, Morales founded an organization of Venezuelan journalists in Spain, which today has hundreds of members.

The morning U.S. forces captured Maduro, Morales said she woke up to a barrage of missed calls from friends and family in Venezuela.

“Of course, we hope to recover a democratic country, a free country, a country where human rights are respected,” Morales said. “But it’s difficult to think that as a Venezuelan when we’ve lived through so many things and suffered so much.”

Morales sees it as unlikely that she would return home, having spent more than two decades in Spain, but she said she hopes her daughters can one day view Venezuela as a viable option.

“I once heard a colleague say, ‘I work for Venezuela so that my children will see it as a life opportunity.’ And I adopted that phrase as my own. So perhaps in a few years it won’t be me who enjoys a democratic Venezuela, but my daughters.”

For two weeks, Verónica Noya has waited for her phone to ring with the news that her husband and brother have been freed.

Noya’s husband, Venezuelan army Capt. Antonio Sequea, was imprisoned in 2020 after having taken part in a military incursion to oust Maduro. She said he remains in solitary confinement in the El Rodeo prison in Caracas. For 20 months, Noya has been unable to communicate with him or her brother, who was also arrested for taking part in the same plot.

“That’s when my nightmare began,” Noya said.

Venezuelan authorities have said hundreds of political prisoners have been released since Maduro's capture, while rights groups have said the real number is a fraction of that. Noya has waited in agony to hear anything about her four relatives, including her husband's mother, who remain imprisoned.

Meanwhile, she has struggled with what to tell her children when they ask about their father's whereabouts. They left Venezuela scrambling and decided to come to Spain because family roots in the country meant that Noya already had a Spanish passport.

Still, she hopes to return to her country.

“I’m Venezuelan above all else,” Noya said. “And I dream of seeing a newly democratic country."

Venezuelan journalist Caleth Morales works in her apartment's kitchen in Madrid, Wednesday, Jan. 14, 2026. (AP Photo/Bernat Armangue)

David Vallenilla, father of the late David José Vallenilla Luis, sits in his apartment's kitchen in Madrid, Tuesday, Jan. 13, 2026. (AP Photo/Bernat Armangue)

Veronica Noya holds a picture of her husband Antonio Sequea in Madrid, Thursday, Jan. 15, 2026. (AP Photo/Bernat Armangue)

David Vallenilla holds a picture of deposed President Nicolas Maduro, blindfolded and handcuffed, during an interview with The Associated Press at his home in Madrid, Tuesday, Jan. 13, 2026. (AP Photo/Bernat Armangue)

Pictures of the late David José Vallenilla Luis are placed in the living room of his father, David José Vallenilla, in Madrid, Tuesday, Jan. 13, 2026. (AP Photo/Bernat Armangue)