By Levi Bakke
Published August 10, 2025
This is the second installment in an investigative series. Read Part One: "Denied. Delayed. Dismissed. Amanda's Story" here.
In the remote valleys of Eastern Oregon, where vast landscapes hide intimate connections, a web of interlocking leadership has consolidated power over life-and-death decisions. Drawing on thousands of pages of public records, board minutes, and historical documents, this investigation reveals how a handful of individuals and families dominate Union County's healthcare and social services—potentially at the expense of accountability and vulnerable residents.
Grande Ronde Hospital (GRH) isn't just Union County's only hospital; it's the economic heartbeat of a 2,038-square-mile region serving 25,000 residents. Founded in 1907 by pioneering physicians—Drs. Carlton T. Bacon, Nicholas Molitor, Alfred L. Richardson, and George L. Biggers—as a modest six-bed facility, GRH has grown into the county's largest private employer, with over 800 staff and 80 providers handling 200,000 patient encounters annually.
The hospital's modern era began in the 1960s, when it faced collapse. Enter David C. Baum, a former state legislator and local businessman, who led a community-driven rebirth. Baum chaired the new nonprofit board from 1966 to 1977, spearheading expansions and founding the GRH Foundation, which has raised over $5.2 million. His legacy endures: a memorial wing bears his name, and his grandson, attorney Wyatt S. Baum, sits on the Foundation's board today.
GRH's governance is a dual-board system. The Board of Trustees oversees operations, led by CEO Jeremy P. Davis, with members including Vice Chair Jared Rogers and Debra Bell. The Foundation Board, focused on philanthropy, includes Wyatt Baum, Heather Null (secretary and wife of local attorney Glenn Null), George Mendoza (La Grande School District superintendent), and overlaps like Davis and Bell. This interlock ensures alignment but raises questions about independence.
Adjacent to GRH's orbit is the Mount Emily Safe Center (MESC), a 501(c)(3) nonprofit incorporated in 1999 by then-Union County District Attorney Russell B. West. MESC serves as the sole Child Advocacy Center for eight rural counties, providing forensic interviews, medical exams, advocacy, and counseling for abused children—minimizing trauma through coordinated services.
Its mission: a "multidisciplinary approach to child abuse assessment" and prevention. Financially robust, MESC boasts a 94% program expense ratio, with revenues from grants (70-80%) and donations fueling $500,000+ in annual operations. Key donors include board member Ken Knott and foundations like Ford Family and Wildhorse.
Leadership ties run deep. Jared Rogers, GRH's trustee vice chair, chairs MESC's board. Dennis Burke, former CEO of Good Shepherd Health Care System, is treasurer. Historical filings show early involvement from DA West (initial chairman), with secretaries like Heather Tibbetts (from the DA's office) and presidents including Jared Rogers (2010) and Kelsie McDaniel (2013). Medical Director Tempie Bartell, a pediatric nurse practitioner, has served since 2002, linking MESC to regional healthcare.
MESC's bylaws mandate board inclusion of a district attorney, law enforcement, CPS worker, and medical professional—ensuring cross-agency control but potentially blurring lines between investigation and oversight.
The Eastern Oregon Coordinated Care Organization (EOCCO) ties it all together, managing Medicaid for 50,000 enrollees across 12 counties. Co-owned by eight entities, including GRH and Good Shepherd, EOCCO distributes millions in state funds to providers—who also govern it.
Jeremy Davis represents GRH on EOCCO's board, alongside Dennis Burke (now a paid consultant post-retirement). This structure, state-sanctioned to align incentives, creates a "circular flow of power and money," as one source described. Providers like GRH receive funds from an entity they co-own, with limited external accountability.
Board minutes reveal Burke's frequent presence, solidifying an "inner circle." EOCCO's model exemplifies rural efficiency but invites groupthink and conflicts, especially in a region where "everyone knows everyone."
The Baum family's influence permeates: from David C. Baum's foundational role to Wyatt Baum's current seats on GRH's Foundation and ties to local law (Baum Smith, LLC). Crossovers abound—Rogers chairs MESC while vice-chairing GRH; Bell and Davis bridge GRH boards; Mendoza links education to healthcare philanthropy.
Other threads: Heather Null's Foundation role connects to legal circles through Attorney Glenn Null, former Chair; Burke's EOCCO and MESC positions span hospitals and child welfare. Historical documents show DA West's MESC founding, with early addresses at the DA's office and police building.
This nexus isn't accidental. Documents describe it as a "sophisticated governance strategy" for rural resilience, blending direct control, philanthropy, and partnerships. Yet it concentrates authority: the same leaders navigate healthcare, child abuse response, and public funds.
Strengths like collaboration enable quick resource alignment, vital in sparse rural areas. But vulnerabilities loom: insulated decisions, potential conflicts, and limited transparency. EOCCO's self-governance risks unchecked fund flows; MESC's mandated board composition could prioritize agency interests over independent review.
Consider a real-world implication: the case of a man allegedly subjected to botched surgery at GRH, forced into adult foster care, sedated, isolated from his wife, and ultimately allegedly murdered to escape oversight. In a system where hospital leaders intersect with legal and welfare entities, how does accountability function? Did interconnected oversight fail to intervene?
Charity Navigator flags MESC's incomplete impact data; GRH's self-perpetuating board limits external input. Succession planning is opaque, with long tenures (e.g., Bartell's 20+ years) risking knowledge loss.
Union County's nexus offers a blueprint for rural survival—strong, localized control fostering resilience. But it blurs public-private lines, potentially sidelining diverse voices and enabling unchecked influence. As one transcript provocatively asks: How does a community balance efficiency with transparent oversight?
This investigation, based on exhaustive records, calls for greater scrutiny. In Eastern Oregon's close-knit world, true community well-being demands not just trusted relationships, but accountable ones. The stakes—lives, funds, justice—are too high for anything less.
In the next installment of this series, we delve deeper into the machinery of control. Drawing on billing records, emails, and DHS investigation documents, we'll expose how key figures in the nexus—including attorneys, care home operators with deep DHS ties, and state officials—allegedly coordinated to isolate vulnerable residents, manipulate regulatory outcomes, and enable questionable practices like fraudulent hospice certifications. What happens when the system protects itself at the expense of those it serves? Stay tuned for the evidence that connects the dots.