Full Circle: How a $240,000 Settlement Exposed a System That Closed Ranks—Until It Didn’t

By Taj Ashaheed

There are moments in life when justice doesn’t arrive as a triumph.

It arrives as a correction.

A rebalancing.

A full circle.

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My recent $240,000 settlement with the Colorado Department of Corrections might look, on paper, like a victory. But the truth is more complicated. It is the endpoint of a decade-long chain of decisions—some personal, many institutional—that reveal how easily systems meant to uphold justice can instead be bent to convenience, pressure, and protection of their own.

To understand that settlement, you have to go back to 2014.

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That year, I pled guilty to harassment charges brought by my ex-wife, Dominique. The allegations were false. I intended to fight them. But fighting would have meant sitting in jail for months—possibly a year—waiting for trial.

At the time, my teenage daughter was struggling deeply with my absence.

So when prosecutors offered a deal—plead guilty, receive probation—I made a calculation. Not about guilt, but about time. About family. About survival.

I had already been convicted of a felony in the past. And despite that, I had built a life that included working for two U.S. presidents. I believed, perhaps naively, that I could overcome another conviction.

So I took the deal.

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At sentencing, however, I made a different mistake.

I was not contrite enough.

And in a system that often demands performance over truth, that mattered more than the facts.

Instead of probation, I was sentenced to four years in prison.

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I served my time. I came home. I began parole.

And then the accusations started again.

Dominique repeatedly contacted my parole officer, making false claims that I was continuing to harass her. My officer initially saw through it. At one point, he tested her allegations directly.

He had me taken into custody and held in county jail. Then he scheduled a face-to-face meeting with her to hear her claims firsthand.

She never showed.

Instead, she later told him that she had come to the meeting—but that I was there, that I approached her, threatened her, and chased her off.

What she didn’t know was that I was in a jail cell at that exact moment.

I could not have been there.

When my parole officer realized this, he came to the jail himself, opened my cell door, and released me—apologizing for putting me through what he recognized as false accusations.

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But even that wasn’t enough to stop what came next.

She escalated—contacting supervisors, applying pressure until the system began applying pressure back on me.

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In 2016, during Ramadan, I was fasting.

As a Muslim with chronic kidney disease, fasting alters my body chemistry. That matters in ways most people—and too many institutions—don’t fully understand.

I submitted a urine sample that tested positive for alcohol.

I had not been drinking.

My faith, my history, and my parole officer’s own knowledge of me all supported that.

But the system moved forward anyway.

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Here’s the irony.

At the time, Colorado had enacted reforms to reduce incarceration for technical parole violations—especially those related to substance use. The intent was clear: treatment, not prison.

But in my case, the parole board acknowledged that I did not have a substance abuse problem.

And then sent me back to prison anyway.

Not for alcohol.

Not for drugs.

But, as was effectively communicated, to remove me from the situation—and from the ongoing complaints.

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Ninety days.

Back inside.

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It was during that period, at intake, that Correctional Sergeant Derek Porcher ordered me to shave my beard—despite a clear religious exemption under Department of Corrections policy.

As a Muslim, my beard is part of my faith.

I refused.

And then I did something else.

I filed a lawsuit.

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What followed over the next decade revealed as much about the system as the original violation.

When I filed my case, I had to identify Porcher as a “John Doe.” His identity—and his personnel history—were not readily disclosed. Records that should have been produced were withheld.

The court eventually admonished the state’s attorneys for their conduct.

Still, my case was dismissed.

The justification: qualified immunity—a doctrine that often shields government officials from accountability, even in the face of clear wrongdoing.

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So I appealed.

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And the appellate court disagreed.

It found that Porcher’s actions—driven by evident animus and in violation of established policy—did not qualify for that protection.

My case was reinstated.

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There was one final attempt to have it dismissed again.

It failed.

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And then something changed.

The same system that had resisted, delayed, and defended…

came to me.

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For settlement.

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Around that same time, Dominique had faced her own legal reckoning—losing a $120,000 civil case related to the theft of a home, followed by a criminal conviction carrying an additional $120,000 in restitution.

Two judgments.

$240,000.

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So when it came time to resolve my case, I made a decision.

Not just about compensation.

But about meaning.

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$240,000.

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Full circle.

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That number does not give me back the years.

It does not erase what my children endured.

It does not undo the damage caused by a system that too often prioritizes closure over truth, and protection over accountability.

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But it does something else.

It draws a line.

It says that even when systems close ranks—when they obscure, delay, and deny—persistence matters.

Truth matters.

And sometimes, even if it takes a decade…

accountability arrives.

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That is the real story behind the settlement.

Not the money.

But the circle it closed.