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WASHINGTON — The criminal indictment of the Southern Poverty Law Center this week was met with much outrage but little surprise from civil rights leaders, who have for more than a year prepared for heightened legal scrutiny from the Trump administration, and how to mount a coordinated response.

In rounds of calls immediately following the indictment, civil rights leaders discussed how to support the SPLC, a Montgomery, Ala.-based civil rights group founded in 1971 that has tracked white supremacist groups and been outspoken on voting rights, immigration and policing. Organizers on one call agreed that winning in the court of public opinion would be crucial as judicial proceedings began, leading to dozens of public statements of support and planned rallies.

And legal advisors to civil rights groups urged organizers to prepare themselves for similar criminal indictments, protracted legal action that may exhaust their resources and audits of their staff and internal documents.

The flurry of behind-the-scenes coordination represented a marked escalation and mobilization of plans for activist groups that have been at odds with the Justice Department since President Trump’s return to the White House last year. Organizers say they are prepared to back the SPLC in its legal fight.

“It’s a blatantly obvious attack on civil rights and civil liberties to whitewash the foot soldiers of the great replacement theory and other extremists. This coalition isn’t going silent,” said Maya Wiley, president and chief executive of the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights, an umbrella organization of hundreds of civil rights groups.

Without addressing the indictment, a coalition of more than 100 activist groups on Tuesday published a letter vowing solidarity with groups that are “unjustly targeted” by the federal government. SPLC was a signatory to the pact.

“An attack on one is an attack on all,” the coalition declared. “We will share knowledge, resources, and support with any organization threatened by abuses of power.”

DOJ alleges criminal conduct in SPLC’s longtime informant network

The Justice Department alleges that the SPLC, which rose to prominence for its work prosecuting and tracking hate groups like the Ku Klux Klan, violated federal law through its network of paid informants in extremist groups. The DOJ claims the payments funded hate groups and misled the SPLC’s donors.

The SPLC now faces charges of wire fraud, bank fraud and conspiracy to commit money laundering in the case brought in the federal court in Alabama, where the organization is based.

“The SPLC is manufacturing racism to justify its existence,” said acting Atty. Gen. Todd Blanche at a news conference announcing the charges. Blanche promised the department “will hold the SPLC and every other fraudulent organization operating with the same deceptive playbook accountable.”

Longtime civil rights activists found the claims to be a disingenuous and partisan move that may empower extremist groups.

“The indictment is nakedly political and represents the Justice Department turning on itself,” said Marc Morial, president of the National Urban League. “It places the Justice Department in the posture of, in effect, defending white supremacist groups like the Ku Klux Klan and others.”

Advocates also view the indictment as part of the administration’s broader upending of civil rights law and the Justice Department’s prosecution of Trump’s political opponents.

The SPLC in recent years became a bogeyman among conservatives who resented that the watchdog designated several rightwing organizations that engage in Republican politics as hateful or extremist.

In October, FBI Director Kash Patel canceled the agency’s longtime anti-extremism partnerships with the SPLC and the Anti-Defamation League, which combats antisemitism. Patel at the time called the SPLC a “partisan smear machine.”

The Justice Department and SPLC did not respond to requests for comment.

Indictment represents marked shift for civil rights work

Advocates dispute the DOJ’s characterization of the SPLC’s work, which civil rights activists credit to combating extremist groups across the country.

“The problem is that the indictment essentially claims that it was a fraud on SPLC’s donors to use their funds to fight the Klan, the neo-Nazis and other white supremacist groups, when that is exactly why people gave to the organization,” said Norm Eisen, founder of Democracy Defenders Action, a legal group that works with organizations in legal disputes with the Trump administration.

Eisen added: “The notion that there’s something wrong with using informants and protecting their identities to prevent white supremacist violence is belied by the fact that that is not only what the SPLC did, but it is also the stock and trade of the FBI itself.”

Civil rights organizations are now preparing for further legal action against other organizations that disagree with or actively oppose the Trump administration. Organizations have reviewed their document retention, tax compliance and auditing policies over the last year to safeguard against any probes or lawsuits.

Some civil rights organizations have also floated creating new organizational structures that may better withstand legal scrutiny. On another recent call, activists floated restructuring some groups into for-profit entities, or potentially crafting new financial conduits for donors to give through to ensure that staff could receive pay if an organization’s assets were seized or frozen.

The preparations represent a marked shift for many civil rights leaders, who in recent years counted the Justice Department under both Democratic and Republican administrations as a reliable ally in key civil rights battles.

“What we are seeing in real time is an administration seeking to leverage its position to target individuals and organizations that do not agree with its political thought,” said NAACP President Derrick Johnson, who said the Justice Department has been “weaponized by dangerous forces.”

But for other leaders, the SPLC indictment raised the specter of a return to a previous era, when the Justice Department monitored — and at times prosecuted — civil rights leaders to disrupt their activities.

“We’re not backing down, but we are clear-eyed. Everyone could be in some form of jeopardy if you’re in the crosshairs of this administration,” said Juan Proaño, CEO of the League of United Latin American Citizens, a civil rights group suing the Trump administration over executive orders addressing birthright citizenship and mail-in voting.

“That’s what they’re looking for; they want this to have a chilling effect,” Proaño said.

Brown writes for the Associated Press.

Jessica Govea Thorbourne, a charismatic organizer for the United Farm Workers union, who raised early alarms about fieldworkers’ exposure to dangerous pesticides and led table grape boycotts in Canada that helped win acceptance for the union at home, died Jan. 23 of breast cancer at a rehabilitation center in West Orange, N.J. She was 58.

Govea Thorbourne worked closely with UFW co-founder Cesar Chavez for 16 years, beginning when she was 19. Two years later she was directing crucial boycotts in Canada that helped the union win one of its first contracts with a California grape grower and ultimately settle with the entire industry.

She also led voter registration and get-out-the-vote drives for a number of Democratic candidates, including presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy during his California Democratic primary campaign, Gov. Jerry Brown, Sen. Alan Cranston and Art Torres, who served 20 years in the California Legislature before becoming the first Latino chairman of the state Democratic Party.

She later moved to the East Coast and spent the last two decades as a labor educator, teaching organizing skills at Rutgers and Cornell universities.

Govea Thorbourne’s contributions to the farmworker movement have been largely unheralded, but stories such as hers “are really the true history of the union,” Jerry Cohen, the UFW’s general counsel from 1967 to 1981, told The Times this week. “She is like the heart and soul of the union when it was at its best.”

Born in Porterville, Calif., Govea Thorbourne went to work in the fields with her parents when she was only 4. She spent every summer until she was 15 in backbreaking toil, filling bags with cotton bolls, scrambling on her knees to pick up prunes that been shaken from trees, and clipping bunches of grapes from row after row of vines while trying to avoid the wasps that hovered over the fruit.

A childhood photo of her shows a smiling, pigtailed girl in a white shirt and denim pants leaning on a shovel, but Govea Thorbourne’s memories of those days were far from sunny. Her skin would itch and burn, which she at first thought was caused by the heat but later attributed to the pesticides that covered the plants she touched every day. “The thing I hated most, though, was that there was no toilet. I just had to find a place and hope no one could see,” she said in the 2001 book “We Were There, Too,” which profiles reformers whose activism took root during their youth.

Her father, Juan Govea, was a respected leader of the Mexican American community in Bakersfield when Cesar Chavez and Fred Ross Sr. recruited him to help organize local workers for their Community Service Organization, a precursor of the UFW. Govea Thorbourne accompanied her father as he went door to door, listening to people’s stories of the struggles they encountered in their jobs, at government offices and in their children’s schools.

“My father never talked down to people. He listened carefully and spoke respectfully,” she said. “I learned a lot about organizing just from listening to these conversations.”

By age 9 she was helping her father turn out leaflets about the Community Service Organization meetings and reciting patriotic poems at rallies. At 12, she was president of the Junior CSO and led other farmworker children in a successful petition drive for a neighborhood park after her best friend was killed by a speeding truck while taking her siblings to a park three miles away. “That was the first time she led an organizing campaign,” said Fred Ross Jr., a fellow organizer who worked for the UFW from 1966 to 1977.

After she graduated from Bakersfield High School, Govea Thorbourne joined the National Farm Workers Assn. (later renamed the United Farm Workers), which Chavez had formed in 1962. She was a caseworker helping union families when three women came to her for help dealing with rashes, headaches and dizzy spells. They were told their problems were caused by heat exhaustion, but Govea Thorbourne believed the cause was pesticide poisoning.

At first, union leaders did not pay much attention to the alarms she was trying to raise, but she persisted until they “finally made pesticides an issue,” Cohen said.

The adverse effects of pesticide exposure became a central part of the story UFW organizers told to build support for the boycotts. The issue received national attention when then-Sen. Walter F. Mondale (D-Minn.) made pesticides a focus of Senate hearings on migrant workers in 1969.

“When we won contracts with the grape industry,” Cohen said, “we put in clauses to protect farmworkers from pesticide. Jessica was the first to raise the issue in an insistent manner.”

Govea Thorbourne was only 21 when she and Marshall Ganz were sent to Canada in 1968 to enlist consumers there in the union’s fight against growers.

“She earned a real following up there,” said Ganz, now a lecturer in public policy at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard.

“She was a gifted speaker … and she could sing [the farmworkers’ story] as well as speak it,” he added, recalling songs she sang that conveyed the longing and sadness in the workers’ lives.

By winning broad-based support among students, labor and churches, Govea Thorbourne and Ganz drew millions of Canadians in Toronto and Montreal — then among the top five markets for California table grapes — into the boycott, which gave the UFW critical leverage in its fight for recognition at the bargaining table.

“The boycott they led was one of the most effective and key in settling the grape strike,” said Eliseo Medina, a former UFW board member who is now a national officer of the Service Employees International Union. “Mind you, when the boycott began, there was no formula for how to do a boycott. Marshall and Jessica invented the formula, and many of us learned from that.”

Govea Thorbourne would later serve as national director of organizing for the union and in 1977 became a member of the UFW’s executive board. Years later, as an educator, she would often tell the young union workers she was training that she was not even sure where Canada was when she volunteered to go there.

“People who were thinking they could never do something like this drew strength from hearing her talk. She was very humble,” said Ken Margulies, who worked closely with her as director of training programs for labor organizers at Cornell’s School of Industrial Labor Relations.

At Cornell she worked extensively with Chinese-speaking members of Local 1199 of the Service Employees International Union, which represents healthcare workers. She also helped train coffee-processing workers in El Salvador in the early 1990s.

Although she could not prove the connection, she believed that her cancer, which was diagnosed in 1993, was caused by her exposure to pesticides as a youth working in the fields, according to her husband, Kenneth Thorbourne Jr., whom she married in 1987.

She also is survived by her mother, Margaret Govea; two sisters; and two brothers.

Her husband said that, despite her suspicions about the origins of her illness, she was never bitter about her fate and continued to work until last fall, when the cancer spread to her brain.