Sheriff’s Foundation Treasurer Accused of Misappropriating $100K from Minneapolis Youth Program

When $100,000 intended to support at-risk families in Minneapolis disappeared, the betrayal didn’t come from a stranger. The funds were under the care of the Isanti County Sheriff’s Foundation, whose treasurer, Kim Nordenstrom, is accused of misappropriating the grant.

Marshaan Johnson, the founder of Project 612 and inventor of Whetball, says the ordeal not only jeopardized his youth program but also revealed troubling gaps in transparency and accountability from an institution tied to law enforcement. As he incubated his program, he sought out fiscal sponsorship and thought the sheriff’s foundation was a credible 501(c)(3).

“Once I found out that essentially everything was gone and there was a potential risk of not being able to continue… I was distraught, I was lost,” Marshaan said.

Over the first few months, Nordenstrom rationed out small amounts for Project 612’s expenses, maintaining the facade of fiscal sponsorship. Marshaan later learned that no one else in the foundation knew Nordenstrom had agreed to act as Project 612’s fiscal agent. The truth came to light only after another check from the foundation bounced, exposing that the account had been depleted according to a recording with Chisago county investigators. In total, Marshaan received about $14,000 before the funds were gone. He had to retain attorneys to recover the remaining $86,000.

Though the funds have since been returned and are now held in trust, Marshaan describes the process as “frustrating” and “surprising.” He points to the way the investigation was handled as evidence of a double standard.

“As a Black man, if I had misappropriated funds, especially for a program run by a white person for a community in need, I would be in jail,” Marshaan said. “I don’t think there would be a question about it.”

For Marshaan, the grant represented more than just financial support. It was the realization of a lifelong dream. Growing up in North Minneapolis in a single-parent home, Marshaan often faced scarcity. He became a basketball trainer and later created Whet Ball—an innovative sport that combines basketball drills with water-based training to reduce stress on the body.

“I couldn’t believe that we were going to be able to even do something to this level,” Marshaan said. “It was my dream from when I was 16, to come back and help kids in the same situation I was in.”

We reached out to Isanti County Sheriff’s foundation for a response to these claims and to see if their treasurer Kim Nordenstrom is still in her current position but they did not respond to our email.

A Conflict of Interest

Because the accused treasurer, Kim Nordenstrom, served on the Isanti County Sheriff’s Foundation, the case could not be investigated internally. The Chisago County Sheriff’s Office confirmed it was assigned to the case to avoid a conflict of interest. But despite taking over the investigation, Chisago County has declined to provide any information on the status of the case.

Marshaan said that during his interactions, investigators made remarks that raised red flags.

“The Chisago County Sheriff that was investigating would consistently say, ‘We’re trying to figure out who the victim is here,’” he recalled. “That kind of threw me off a little bit. To me, I think it’s pretty straightforward who the victim is: the kids from Project 612 and myself.”

His attorney, Simon Trautmann, said the handling of the case risks further eroding community trust.

“When you tell the victim of a crime—an entrepreneur investing in his community—that investigators are ‘not here to pass judgment,’ it’s deeply concerning,” Trautmann said. “That kind of communication breaks trust that’s already fragile.”

A Pattern of Mismanaging Money

Trautmann also noted that Nordenstrom has faced allegations of financial misconduct before. She was previously named in a civil complaint by former business partners who accused her of taking funds not owed to her.

Even more troubling: while Marshaan’s funds were eventually replaced, they were not repaid by Nordenstrom herself. Instead, the money appeared to come from an unrelated company called EZ Hospitality LLC—a firm with no known ties to Marshaan or his program.

“There are a lot of unanswered questions,” Trautmann said. “There’s no accountability, no transparency, no charges. And as far as we know, Kim Nordenstrom is still serving as treasurer of the foundation.”

What Comes Next

For now, Marshaan is working to finalize his own 501(c)(3) nonprofit to steward the recovered funds directly. While relieved the money has been returned, he is calling for accountability to ensure that no other community projects fall victim to the same breach of trust.

“Deep down, I would like to see some sort of consequence,” Marshaan said. “I don’t want this to be able to continue to happen.”

Trautmann echoed that the priority moving forward is rebuilding trust through transparency. Without it, he warns, the damage could spread beyond one nonprofit program to the broader community that relies on these partnerships.

Marshaan’s story highlights a broader issue: Black-led initiatives often face higher barriers to funding, and when money is lost or mishandled, accountability is uneven. At a time when corporate and philanthropic institutions pledge to invest in equity, cases like this expose how fragile those commitments can be without systems of transparency and oversight.

Journalist’s Note

As a reporter who has covered stories of injustice for years, I’ve seen how trust between communities of color and institutions can be quickly fractured. Marshaan’s experience is not just about one misappropriated grant—it’s about a system that too often fails to protect Black entrepreneurs even when they follow every rule. Until transparency and accountability are consistent, programs meant to uplift will remain vulnerable.