Abbott's Sex Offender Treatment Council: A Crisis for Public Safety in Texas?

When Texas Governor Greg Abbott tapped Jeffery K. Fletcher, Elizabeth Cox, and Grover C. Rollins for the Sex Offender Treatment Council, the announcement landed like a gut punch for those who care about justice. On its surface, it’s a routine move, appointments to a body tasked with setting treatment standards and licensing providers. Dig deeper, though, and it’s a glaring signal of priorities gone astray, favoring oversight over healing, control over compassion.

This isn’t just about three résumés. It’s about what they represent in a state where survivors of sexual violence still fight for resources, where treatment programs for offenders, proven to cut recidivism, remain underfunded and overstretched. Fletcher’s a clinician, sure, and Rollins brings forensic psychology chops. Cox, though? A business development director with a criminal justice degree but no clear expertise in treatment or rehabilitation. The mismatch screams louder than the press release.

For anyone tracking Texas’ track record, this feels eerily familiar. A governor’s office more fixated on tough-on-crime optics than the messy, vital work of rehabilitation isn’t new. What’s at stake here isn’t just council seats expiring in 2031 or 2027. It’s whether Texas doubles down on a system that’s failing survivors by neglecting the root causes of reoffending.

Let’s talk numbers, because they don’t lie. Research backs it up: well-run treatment programs, grounded in cognitive-behavioral therapy and models like Risk-Need-Responsivity, slash recidivism by 5 to 8% over five years. That’s not a theory, it’s a fact, borne out in studies from California to Colorado. Compare that to Texas, where a shortage of qualified providers leaves offenders languishing, untreated, and more likely to harm again.

Take California’s program as a benchmark. Their three-year conviction rate for participants hovers at 20.7%, with under 3% tied to new sex crimes. Why? Because they’ve leaned into evidence-based care, not political posturing. Texas, meanwhile, can’t even fill its provider slots. Colorado’s got 26 out of 56 treatment positions staffed as of 2023, and Texas isn’t faring much better. This isn’t a staffing glitch, it’s a crisis, one that puts communities at risk while appointees like Cox, with no direct treatment experience, get a say in fixing it.

Then there’s the human toll. Survivors don’t just want offenders locked up, they want them changed. The Good Lives Model, which builds on offenders’ strengths rather than just policing their risks, has shown promise since its rollout in progressive states. Texas could lead here, but instead, it’s appointing a car dealership exec to a role demanding expertise in trauma and behavior. That’s not oversight, it’s negligence.

Some argue these picks reflect a necessary balance, that forensic focus from Rollins and business savvy from Cox bring fresh angles. Nice try. Public safety isn’t a corporate spreadsheet, and forensic psychology alone doesn’t heal. Without prioritizing trained providers and accessible programs, this council risks becoming a rubber stamp for a broken status quo.

History backs this up too. A 2005 meta-analysis found treated offenders reoffend at 11.1% over five years, versus 17.5% for the untreated. That gap, narrow as it seems, is lives saved, families spared. Texas has the data, the models, the chance to act. So why settle for appointees who don’t scream commitment to that fight?

The Senate confirmation process looms over this, and it’s a grim preview. Look at Justin Berry’s reappointment to the Texas Commission on Law Enforcement just this month. Allegations of excessive force, millions in settlements from 2020 protests, and still, he squeaked through with a 21-10 vote. One Democrat crossed the aisle, and that was that. If Berry’s any indication, Fletcher, Cox, and Rollins will sail through too, not because they’re the best, but because Texas politics rewards loyalty over substance.

This isn’t about partisan gamesmanship, it’s about who gets hurt. Survivors, advocates, and communities deserve a council that fights for treatment standards rooted in science, not expediency. The Association for the Treatment of Sexual Abusers has clear guidelines, updated in 2025, pushing individualized plans and accountability. Texas’ council could champion that, but only if its members grasp the stakes.

Instead, we’re left with a trio that feels handpicked to maintain, not mend. Fletcher and Rollins might have the credentials, but Cox’s appointment reeks of tokenism, a nod to optics over impact. Meanwhile, states like Maryland demand 1,000 hours of clinical experience for providers. Texas could raise that bar, but not with a council stacked to coast.

Texas stands at a crossroads. It can cling to a system that prioritizes punishment over prevention, or it can invest in what works: treatment that lowers recidivism, providers who meet rigorous standards, and a council that puts survivors first. These appointments don’t inspire confidence; they spark dread. A council shaping treatment policy needs voices steeped in the field, not placeholders plucked from unrelated corners.

The evidence is overwhelming, the need undeniable. Survivors deserve safety, not just slogans. Offenders need treatment, not just bars. Abbott’s picks could still surprise us, but the track record suggests otherwise. It’s time for Texas to stop settling and start leading, with a council that reflects the urgency of this moment, not the inertia of the past.