How Pasco County’s Sheriff Used Data Analytics to Create His Own Minority Report

By Joe Marzo

In 2011, Pasco County, Florida, adopted a bold new idea: using data to stop crime before it happened. Under the leadership of Sheriff Chris Nocco, the department introduced what it called “Intelligence-Led Policing,” promising a proactive approach to public safety. But what unfolded over the next decade would become one of the most disturbing examples of predictive policing in America—a system that quietly labeled hundreds of residents as future criminals, including vulnerable children who had never committed a crime.

Some of the children targeted were victims of trauma. Some had been sexually assaulted or abused at home. Instead of receiving support or protection, these kids were secretly flagged by the sheriff’s office as potential future offenders. Their pain became part of a shadow file used to justify police surveillance and harassment.

By the time the program was exposed, hundreds of lives had been disrupted, families had been terrorized, and a chilling truth had been revealed: in Pasco County, being a victim could get you treated like a suspect.

The Secret List

The foundation of the Pasco program was a homegrown algorithm—a spreadsheet model that ranked individuals based on their supposed risk of committing crimes in the future. Unlike neighborhood-based crime mapping used in larger cities, Pasco’s approach was personal. It pulled from a range of sources: arrest records, school grades, disciplinary referrals, attendance data, mental health reports, and child welfare records.

Using this data, the sheriff’s office created a so-called “Prolific Offender” list. According to reporting by the Tampa Bay Times and legal filings by the Institute for Justice, more than 1,000 individuals were placed on it—including over 400 minors. Many of these children had never been arrested or charged with any crime.

Even more troubling was what the data used to generate the list actually contained. The sheriff’s office relied on information shared by schools and child protective services, including notes from guidance counselors, truancy records, and—most disturbingly—records of children who had been physically or sexually abused. These personal histories, originally collected to help support and safeguard vulnerable youth, were now repurposed to mark them as future criminals.

From Victims to Targets

The logic was rooted in flawed assumptions: that children who experience trauma are statistically more likely to engage in criminal behavior later in life. Pasco law enforcement took that premise and turned it into a justification for surveillance. In practice, it meant that a teenage girl who had been sexually assaulted could find herself flagged by the sheriff’s office—not because she had broken the law, but because her history of victimization was seen as predictive of future trouble.

This perverse feedback loop—where the very factors that should trigger intervention and care were used to justify suspicion—shocked parents, educators, and legal experts alike when it finally came to light.

The families never received notice. There was no hearing, no review, no opportunity to challenge the label. Once on the list, the consequences were immediate and invasive.

The Harassment Begins

Once flagged, individuals on the list became the targets of so-called “prolific offender checks.” Deputies were instructed to visit these homes regularly—sometimes as often as every other week. These visits were unannounced, often occurring late at night or early in the morning. Officers did not need probable cause or suspicion of any particular crime; the list was enough.

They knocked on doors repeatedly, questioned children and their families, and searched for any reason to issue citations. When no criminal activity was found, deputies resorted to code enforcement: citing uncut grass, faded house numbers, broken screens, mailbox dimensions, or pets lacking vaccinations.

Body camera footage later revealed how these visits unfolded. In one case, a mother was cited for having chickens in her yard. In another, a 15-year-old boy—whose only known infraction was stealing a bicycle—was visited 21 times in five months. One deputy was quoted in internal communications saying the goal was to “make their lives miserable until they move or sue.”

This was not public safety. It was harassment.

Children Wake Up to Flashlights

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the program was its impact on children. Teens on the list found themselves woken by deputies with flashlights in their faces, questioned about their friends and behavior, and subjected to surveillance at school and home. Teachers and principals were often unaware of the list’s existence, even as their students were being flagged based on academic or disciplinary records.

In a horrifying twist, children who had been sexually assaulted—already enduring the trauma of violence—were treated not as victims in need of healing, but as future threats to be monitored. These children were never told they were on a list. They only knew that the police wouldn’t stop showing up at their doors.

A System Exposed

The program operated in secrecy for nearly a decade until The Tampa Bay Times published a major exposé in 2020. The investigation revealed how school data and child welfare reports were being funneled into law enforcement algorithms without oversight or transparency. The series also exposed how children who had been sexually abused were placed on the list simply because their victimization was considered a “risk factor.”

The public response was swift and fierce. Civil rights organizations including the Institute for Justice, the Southern Poverty Law Center, the Electronic Frontier Foundation, and the NAACP Legal Defense Fund condemned the program. An open letter from over a dozen national groups demanded that the program be shut down immediately, calling it a violation of basic human dignity and constitutional rights.

Legal Showdown and Settlement

In 2021, four families—two of which included children targeted by the program—filed a federal lawsuit with the help of the Institute for Justice. The case argued that the Pasco County Sheriff’s Office had violated their First, Fourth, and Fourteenth Amendment rights. Discovery in the case revealed damning internal documents, including emails where deputies were encouraged to contact landlords to get flagged families evicted.

After years of legal pressure, the Sheriff’s Office settled the case in December 2024. As part of the settlement, the agency formally admitted that the program had violated the U.S. Constitution. It agreed to pay $105,000 in damages and to permanently shut down the program. The office also committed not to rebrand or restart any similar initiative in the future.

Despite the gravity of the revelations, Sheriff Chris Nocco remained in office and defended the original goals of the program. There was no apology.

What It All Means

Pasco County’s predictive policing initiative offers a chilling example of what happens when technology and power intersect without accountability. At its core, the program turned personal trauma into a justification for police action. It punished victims, harassed families, and blurred the line between future risk and present guilt.

It also showed how data systems—when unchecked—can lead to systemic injustice. School records meant to help struggling students were used to surveil them. Reports of sexual violence, entered into state systems to trigger protective services, became part of an algorithm labeling children as criminals.

The people of Pasco County—especially the children—deserved better. They deserved a system that listened, protected, and healed. Instead, they got one that watched, judged, and punished.

And while the program is gone, the scars it left remain.

Sources:

• Tampa Bay Times, “Targeted” Series (2020): projects.tampabay.com

• Institute for Justice, Pasco Predictive Policing Case

• Florida Phoenix, Settlement Report (Dec. 2024)

• Electronic Frontier Foundation, EFF Critique of Pasco Program

• Southern Legal Counsel, Public Records Lawsuit Win