In what has become a stunning legal scandal, a public defender working for Queens Defenders has been arrested for allegedly bringing more than 130 pages of THC-laced documents into Rikers Island during an official attorney-client visit. The arrest on June 11, 2025, has cast a harsh spotlight on security lapses in correctional facilities, shaken public trust in non‑profit defense organizations, and prompted wider questions about ethical accountability within legal aid services.
The incident unraveled when attorney Bernardo Caceres arrived at Rikers to meet his client, Luis DeJesus, who faces second-degree burglary charges. Security scanners triggered a canine alert, prompting officer intervention. Inside a seemingly innocent legal-size envelope, officers discovered discolored sheets soaked with THC—the psychoactive compound in cannabis. Confirmation tests conducted after the seizure revealed THC-laced paper, leaving Caceres facing serious felony allegations .
Queens Defenders acknowledged that Caceres has been with their organization for nearly five years, previously having interned with the Legal Aid Society . Yet questions now swirl around how a trusted attorney managed to pass contaminated documents into one of the nation’s most secure jails. With prosecutors likely to frame the charges under New York’s “promoting prison contraband” statute, Caceres could face up to seven years in prison if convicted .
Union officials wasted no time calling for structural change. Benny Boscio, president of the Correctional Officers Benevolent Association, argued that the smuggling showed a clear weakness in jail protocols. He advocated that all paper documents be digitized and inspected electronically—preferably via secure tablets—before they ever cross the threshold of correctional facilities . The argument underscores a shared concern among correctional authorities that traditional scanners and canine sensors are no match for liquid-based concealment methods.
The fallout has only worsened for Queens Defenders, which already faced a major ethical collapse earlier this week. Founder Lori Zeno and her husband and colleague, attorney Rashad Ruhani, stand federally indicted for allegedly embezzling over $60,000 from the legal non-profit. Prosecutors say the couple used organizational funds to pay for a luxury penthouse, lavish meals at high-end restaurants, a dream vacation in Bali, designer shopping, even cosmetic procedures like teeth whitening . The clean reputation of the defense group has suffered a lethal blow under the weight of overlapping scandals.
In court, Caceres’s defense may center on his cooperation with authorities during the arrest. But the evidence—a clear K-9 alert, chemically tested documents, and the sheer volume of contaminated sheets—poses a formidable challenge. Prosecutors will look to prove that the attorney knowingly attempted to introduce contraband materials into a secure precinct, undermining prison regulations and legal ethical norms.
Legal advocates and analysts warn that the consequences threaten more than this single case. Clients represented by Queens Defenders might lose faith in their counsel or request new representation. Courts could face motions to disqualify Caceres or even entertain claims of compromised legal defense. For incarcerated clients, the revelation that an attorney may have smuggled drugs in could spark emotional distress—or worse, doubts about the integrity of their legal process.
The scandal also forces a reckoning with public perception of defense attorneys. Legal aid offices rely on community trust, public funding, and grant support. To lose ethical standing—or appear to undermine the justice system—could lead to tighter conditions imposed by funders, heightened government oversight, and loss of crucial contracts. In fact, city officials have already begun reassessing agreements with Queens Defenders following these revelations.
That scrutiny now extends into practices inside jails. As contraband methods evolve, corrections authorities may need to reevaluate entry procedures. Digitizing legal paperwork, employing chemical swabs or spectroscopy, and using tamper-evident seals could become standard. Beyond hardware upgrades, securing sensitive systems requires training, access controls, and an institutional culture that prioritizes safety alongside attorney access rights.
Queens Defenders, for its part, is likely to launch internal inquiries and reforms. As federal involvement looms over its executive leadership, the organization faces the potential of audits, staff credentialing updates, and stricter document handling protocols. Transparency efforts—such as public statements, third-party oversight, and adoption of digital submission systems—will become critical to salvaging its reputation.
Stepping back, the convergence of smuggling charges and embezzlement indictments underscores broader questions about nonprofit legal defense operations. How are ethical guidelines enforced? What mechanisms verify staff compliance? And how do funders and regulators ensure that taxpayer dollars serve the public-good mission rather than private gain?
For Caceres, Zeno, and Ruhani, the legal journey ahead will be long and complicated. Criminal courts will sort out the contraband charges against the backdrop of prison regulations, while federal courts pursue prosecutors’ allegations of wire fraud, money laundering, and theft. Meanwhile, Queens Defenders—a once-trusted defender of indigent defendants—will need to repair fractured community relations, restore internal safeguards, and offer assurances that real change has taken root.
Once trust is broken in the attorney-client bond, restoration takes years. But if Queens Defenders can enact meaningful oversight—from digitized case materials to ethical training and transparent operations—this crisis might evolve into a turning point. For the incarcerated, the legal community, and the public who fund support services, the goal must be a renewed system that balances robust defense rights with unassailable integrity.
