A Virginia circuit court judge blocked certification of the state's redistricting referendum on Wednesday, ruling that both the vote and the underlying amendment process were unconstitutional, a decision that throws a major wrench into Democratic plans to redraw the commonwealth's congressional maps in their favor.
The Tazewell County Circuit Court issued an injunction barring certification of the special election just one day after Virginia voters narrowly approved the redistricting measure. The judge also denied a motion to stay the order pending appeal, meaning the certification freeze holds for now.
The ruling landed like a brick on a process that Democrats had spent months building toward. If the redistricting referendum had been certified and survived legal scrutiny, it would have empowered the state legislature to redraw Virginia's congressional maps, an outcome widely expected to expand the Democratic advantage in the state's House delegation. That prospect, for the moment, is on ice.
Former Virginia Attorney General Ken Cuccinelli announced the decision on X, as reported by Just the News:
"UPDATE on referendum lawsuits: The Tazewell Circuit Court just ruled the referendum unconstitutional. The Judge entered an injunction blocking certification of the election & denied a motion to stay pending appeal. A final order will be entered once drafted, & it will be immediately appealed."
State Rep. Wren Williams, a Republican from Virginia, offered a more detailed account of the proceedings. Williams wrote on X that the judge "reaffirmed all prior rulings" and went further than simply blocking the vote count:
"UPDATE: From the Tazewell Circuit Court, the Judge reaffirmed all prior rulings, declared the referendum as unconstitutional and the amendment process of HB 1384 as unconstitutional. He entered injunctive relief and specifically enjoined the certification of the election. He denied a motion to stay pending appeal. A final order will be entered once drafted."
That last detail matters. The court did not merely question the referendum's outcome. It declared the entire amendment process behind HB 1384 unconstitutional, a far broader finding that strikes at the legislative machinery Democrats used to put the question on the ballot in the first place.
The Republican argument has been consistent throughout: the referendum did not satisfy Virginia's constitutional requirements for amending the state constitution, including timing requirements tied to an intervening election. Fox News reported that Virginia Circuit Court Judge Jack Hurley issued the ruling the day after the referendum passed, finding that votes both for and against the redistricting amendment were unconstitutional because the amendment process failed to meet required constitutional procedures.
That procedural argument may sound dry, but the stakes are enormous. Virginia's constitutional amendment process exists for a reason: to prevent a simple legislative majority from rewriting the rules of the game on a fast timeline. Republicans contend that Democrats tried to do exactly that, rush a redistricting scheme through a process that cut corners on constitutional safeguards.
The legal fight over this redistricting amendment has been building for months. Multiple challenges remain pending, and the Tazewell County ruling is only the latest front in a broader war over who draws Virginia's congressional lines.
Virginia Attorney General Jay Jones wasted no time signaling that the ruling would not stand unchallenged. Jones pushed back hard, framing the decision as judicial overreach.
"Virginia voters have spoken, and an activist judge should not have veto power over the People's vote."
Jones indicated an appeal would be filed. That appeal is expected to move quickly, and the case will almost certainly land before the Virginia Supreme Court.
The state's highest court has already weighed in once. In March, the Virginia Supreme Court declined to block the referendum outright, allowing it to proceed to a vote. But the justices left the door wide open for a post-election challenge. The court noted at the time that "it is the process, not the outcome, of this effort that we may ultimately have to address. Issuing an injunction to keep Virginians from the polls is not the proper way to make this decision."
That language is worth reading carefully. The Supreme Court did not endorse the referendum's constitutionality. It simply said the right time to adjudicate the question was after the vote, not before it. Now the vote has happened, and the Tazewell County court has rendered its judgment. The Supreme Court is already expected to take up a challenge to the referendum later this month.
This fight has never been about abstract legal procedure. It is about raw political power. The redistricting referendum, if ultimately upheld and certified, would hand the Virginia legislature authority to redraw the state's congressional map. Given Democratic control of that legislature, the new maps were widely expected to favor Democrats, potentially delivering them as many as four additional congressional seats.
That kind of swing would have national implications. In a closely divided U.S. House, a handful of seats in a single state can shift the balance of power. Democrats understood this, which is why prominent national figures, including former President Barack Obama, invested energy in pushing Virginia voters to approve the measure.
Republicans, for their part, have argued that the push to redraw the maps was a partisan power grab dressed up as democratic reform. The Tazewell County ruling gives that argument its strongest legal foothold yet.
Virginia is not the only state where redistricting battles are playing out in courtrooms. Across the country, legal challenges to partisan map-drawing have become a fixture of the political landscape. What makes the Virginia case unusual is the direct collision between a voter-approved referendum and a court finding that the entire process behind it was constitutionally defective.
The immediate path forward is clear: an appeal. Both Cuccinelli and Williams acknowledged in their posts that a final order would be drafted and "immediately appealed." The Virginia Supreme Court, which has already signaled its willingness to address the process question, will likely have the final word, at least at the state level.
The open questions are significant. The exact legal grounds the Tazewell County judge cited for his ruling have not been fully detailed in public filings yet. The vote margin by which Virginians approved the referendum has been described only as narrow. And the timeline for Supreme Court review, while expected later this month, remains uncertain.
What is not in doubt is the political intensity surrounding this case. Democrats see the referendum as the will of the people. Republicans see it as a constitutionally defective attempt to rig the congressional map. Both sides now wait for higher courts to decide which framing prevails.
In a political era where state courts increasingly shape partisan outcomes, the Virginia redistricting fight is a case study in what happens when one side tries to change the rules and the other side reads the rulebook back to them.
Constitutional process exists to protect everyone, including the majority, from shortcuts that look convenient today and corrosive tomorrow. If the amendment process behind HB 1384 really did cut corners, no amount of voter enthusiasm can paper over that defect. That is not an activist judge overruling the people. That is the law doing its job.
Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis is actively pursuing a senior position in the Trump administration, Axios reported, a striking turn for the man who mounted the most aggressive Republican primary challenge against Donald Trump just two years ago.
The report, authored by Marc Caputo, describes DeSantis as "begging" Trump for a prime role, language that, even allowing for Beltway hyperbole, signals a dramatic shift in the relationship between the two men. The Axios headline frames the governor's outreach in unmistakably supplicant terms.
Details beyond the headline remain thin. The full article body was not available in the material reviewed, so the precise nature of DeSantis's outreach, whether through intermediaries, direct conversations, or formal channels, is not yet clear. Nor is the specific position he may be seeking, though the Axios URL references "attorney general," suggesting that role may figure in the reporting.
The trajectory here matters more than any single leak. DeSantis entered the 2024 Republican primary as the most formidable challenger to Trump's renomination. He raised enormous sums, built a national profile on COVID-era governance and culture-war fights in Florida, and attracted significant institutional conservative support.
That campaign ended badly. DeSantis dropped out before most primary voters ever cast a ballot, and the months of sharp exchanges between his camp and Trump's left real scars in MAGA circles. For many Trump loyalists, the DeSantis challenge was not just a political disagreement, it was a breach of movement solidarity at a moment when the former president faced unprecedented legal and political pressure.
Now, if the Axios report is accurate, DeSantis wants back in. The question for the administration, and for the broader conservative movement, is whether that kind of reconciliation serves the president's agenda or rewards exactly the kind of opportunism that Trump supporters have learned to distrust.
The sourcing behind the "begging" characterization is not visible from the material available. Axios describes the story as a "scoop," which typically means the outlet is relying on insider sources rather than official statements or documents. No direct quotes from DeSantis, Trump, or their representatives appear in the available material.
A photo caption places DeSantis at a conference in Miami earlier this month, credited to photographer Joe Raedle of Getty Images. Whether that event is connected to the reported outreach is unclear.
Several open questions remain unanswered. What specific communications form the basis of the claim? When did DeSantis begin this effort? Has Trump or anyone in his inner circle responded? And does the governor's interest extend only to attorney general, or is he casting a wider net?
Without those answers, the story sits in the realm of credible Washington reporting that has not yet been confirmed by the principals. Readers should treat it accordingly, seriously, but not as settled fact.
If there is one currency that matters in this administration, it is loyalty. Trump has made that plain in personnel decisions, public statements, and the way he rewards allies who stood with him through indictments, impeachments, and a contested 2020 election. The figures who have risen highest, from cabinet secretaries to senior advisers, are overwhelmingly those who never wavered.
DeSantis, by definition, wavered. He ran against Trump. He drew contrasts on electability, on temperament, on policy execution. His super PAC aired ads designed to peel away Trump voters. None of that is disqualifying in a normal political context, primaries are supposed to be competitive. But this is not a normal political context. The MAGA movement has its own internal logic, and that logic prizes fidelity.
The broader positioning battle within Republican ranks continues to intensify. Recent CPAC straw polling showed Marco Rubio surging as J.D. Vance's lead narrowed heading into 2028 speculation, a reminder that the jockeying for post-Trump influence is already well underway.
DeSantis seeking a role now could be read two ways. Charitably, it shows a governor who recognizes the president's mandate and wants to serve the conservative cause from inside the administration. Less charitably, it looks like a politician who bet against Trump, lost, and now wants to board the train he tried to derail.
The Axios URL's reference to "attorney general" is worth noting, even if the article body is not fully available. The Department of Justice sits at the center of the administration's most consequential fights, from immigration enforcement to the investigation of government corruption to the protection of constitutional rights against activist judges.
DeSantis, a former Navy JAG officer and former congressman, has legal credentials. His record in Florida includes aggressive use of executive power on issues from education to election integrity. Whether that record, and his willingness to fight, would translate into the kind of attorney general this administration needs is a fair debate.
But the DOJ is also where trust matters most. The department's recent history, from the Russia investigation to the Mar-a-Lago raid, has left deep scars. Criminal referrals tied to the 2019 Trump impeachment are still working their way through the system, a reminder that the institutional rot at Justice did not begin yesterday and will not be cleaned up by someone whose commitment to the president's agenda is uncertain.
Any attorney general nominee would face intense scrutiny from both Senate allies and the president's base. A pick who once ran against Trump would face questions that go well beyond legal qualifications.
DeSantis is not the first former rival to seek a place at the table after losing. Politics rewards pragmatism, and administrations benefit from talent regardless of primary-season grudges. George H.W. Bush ran hard against Ronald Reagan in 1980, then served as his vice president for eight years. The precedent exists.
What makes this moment different is the intensity of the loyalty culture around Trump, and the number of figures who have already demonstrated that loyalty under far greater pressure than a primary campaign. Trump's willingness to rebuff even allied institutions when he believes they have underperformed suggests he values conviction over credentials.
The administration has also shown it can work with former skeptics when the alignment is genuine. The question with DeSantis is whether the alignment runs deeper than ambition.
Meanwhile, the institutional battles that define this presidency continue on multiple fronts. Senate demands for judicial accountability and ongoing foreign-policy recalibrations, including restored bilateral ties with Venezuela, underscore how much is at stake in every senior appointment.
Whoever fills the top roles in this administration will shape the direction of the conservative movement for years. The president has earned the right to fill those seats with people he trusts completely.
The Axios report opens a door but does not walk through it. Key facts remain unconfirmed: whether Trump has engaged with DeSantis's overtures, whether any formal offer or interview has taken place, and whether the governor's interest is limited to one role or reflects a broader willingness to serve in any capacity.
DeSantis's own public statements in the coming days will matter. Silence would suggest the report is accurate and the governor prefers to negotiate quietly. A denial would raise its own questions. And an endorsement from Trump, or a pointed lack of one, would tell the movement everything it needs to know.
In Washington, the people who fought you hardest always come around when you win. The only question worth asking is whether they come back to serve, or to position themselves for the next fight.
U.S. Rep. Hillary Scholten's attorney told a Michigan court that unsealing her divorce filings could cause "irreparable reputational harm" and damage her re-election campaign. A judge disagreed. Now the public can read what the two-term Democrat from Grand Rapids wanted kept quiet, and it paints a picture of a marriage that collapsed fast, a custody fight that turned bitter, and a congresswoman who made her political career part of her legal argument for secrecy.
Scholten, 44, and her husband of 20 years, Jesse Holcomb, a journalism professor at Calvin University in Grand Rapids, are locked in a divorce case that began when Holcomb filed on January 26. The filings, obtained by journalist and podcaster James David Dickson, contain dueling narratives. Scholten's papers describe a husband spiraling through "depressive" and "manic episodes" for months before walking out. Holcomb's filing says the marriage had broken down beyond repair, and accuses Scholten of changing the locks, resetting the security system passwords, and cutting him off from their two sons.
The couple has two boys: James, 16, and Wesley, 13. Both are now caught in the middle.
In February, Scholten's legal team moved to seal the entire case. The argument was not just about family privacy. Her attorney explicitly warned the court that public disclosure of the filings could hurt her standing as a member of Congress and her chances at winning a third term representing Michigan's 3rd Congressional District this November.
As the New York Post previously reported, Scholten's attorney wrote that "divorce pleadings frequently contain allegations that have not been adjudicated, and may be inflammatory in nature, public disclosure could subject defendant to immediate and irreversible reputational harm, with serious consequences for her professional standing, public service and reelection." Holcomb's attorney also supported keeping the records private. The judge denied the request anyway.
That distinction matters. Scholten didn't just ask for discretion to protect her children. She asked a court to shield her political career from the contents of her own legal filings. When a sitting member of Congress argues that voters shouldn't see court documents because they might affect an election, the public has every reason to look closer.
Her chief of staff, Max Ernst, later said Scholten "has issued a transparent letter to her constituents about this personal matter and beyond that, she will not be discussing it further." Transparent, except for the part where she tried to seal the records first.
Scholten's court papers describe a harrowing stretch leading up to the split. She claimed Holcomb had been suffering months of episodes, depressive and manic, before he decided to leave. Six days before he walked out, she said she found him late at night "inconsolably crying," refusing food, and muttering incoherently "about his childhood."
She told their sons their father was not feeling well. She brought up the idea of inpatient treatment at Pine Rest, a mental health facility. Her lawyer wrote that the suggestion backfired:
"This suggestion only increased his irritability. She suggested they take a walk or go cross country skiing. It was virtually impossible to stabilize him."
Then, on January 6, Holcomb "suddenly and irrationally" told Scholten he was leaving and immediately exited their Grand Rapids home, according to her filing. Both boys cried. Scholten's papers allege he turned off location services on his phone after leaving.
The filings go further. Scholten accused Holcomb of "erratic, aggressive, and intimidating behavior" in the days after the split, including what she described as "ambushing them" at an airport after she decided to bring the boys with her to Washington for work. Her attorneys characterized it as behavior that put Holcomb "in the position he is in today with the children."
Holcomb's side tells a different story. His filing states plainly that the marriage had collapsed. In his own words from the court papers:
"There has been a breakdown of the marriage relationship to the extent that the objects of matrimony have been destroyed, and there remains no reasonable likelihood that the marriage can be preserved."
He also alleged that Scholten changed the locks on the family home, reset the security system passwords, and "unilaterally cut off contact" between him and the boys. He accused her of restricting and denying him "liberal access to the marital home." Holcomb filed for divorce on January 26 without informing Scholten in advance.
It's worth noting that Democrats have a track record of expecting the public to simply look away when their members face embarrassing personal or ethical situations. House Democrats stayed silent on expelling Eric Swalwell even when sexual misconduct accusations mounted, a pattern of circling the wagons rather than confronting uncomfortable facts.
Holcomb earns $105,000 as a professor. Scholten makes $174,000 in Congress. Despite the nearly $70,000 gap in their favor, Holcomb asked for spousal support and requested that Scholten cover the costs of the divorce. Scholten is fighting both requests.
In late February, Judge Matthew Delange stepped in with a custody ruling. He ordered the couple to share custody of both boys. Under the arrangement, Holcomb would live in the family home and care for James and Wesley when Scholten is in Washington for congressional work. The judge also ordered the children to undergo therapy.
The therapy order is telling. Scholten's own counter-filing noted that both boys personally texted their father to say they were not ready to see him. Her papers stated bluntly: "The children are not ready to see their father without therapeutic intervention." The judge's ruling suggests he found the situation serious enough to mandate professional help, but not serious enough to grant Scholten sole custody or keep Holcomb away from the home.
That kind of gap between what a party alleges in court and what a judge actually orders is common in contested divorces. But when the party is a sitting congresswoman who tried to seal the whole case, the gap takes on a different weight.
Scholten, a former social worker and immigration attorney in the Obama administration, built her political brand around empathy and public service. Earlier this month, she addressed the divorce publicly for the first time, posting on X:
"I have grown an extra chamber in my heart for moms and dads out there who have had to go through this. It goes without saying that this is a deeply personal matter."
The sentiment is understandable. Divorce is painful, and no one should take pleasure in a family breaking apart. But the issue here is not the divorce itself. It is the effort to use the courts to hide it from voters, and the explicit admission, in legal filings, that the reason was political.
Scholten is running for a third term this November. Voters in Michigan's 3rd Congressional District will decide whether her conduct, both in the courtroom and in the sealing attempt, matters to them. Neither Scholten's attorney nor Holcomb's lawyers returned requests for comment on Monday.
The broader pattern among Democratic officeholders is familiar. When personal scandals surface, the instinct is to suppress, deflect, and reframe the story as a privacy issue. Nancy Pelosi once claimed Democrats had "no idea whatsoever" about misconduct allegations involving one of their own members, a posture that prioritizes party image over accountability.
Scholten's case is different in the details but identical in the reflex. The court said no to secrecy. The public can now read what she wanted hidden.
And what they'll find is not a scandal so much as a contradiction: a public servant who asked voters for trust while asking a judge to keep them in the dark. It's hardly the first time a Democrat has expected the rules to bend around the inconvenience of public accountability.
The divorce case is ongoing. The court that denied the sealing request has not been identified by name in available reporting. The specific airport where Scholten alleges Holcomb confronted the family has not been disclosed. And the exact dates of both the sealing bid and the judge's late-February custody ruling remain unclear.
What is clear is that Scholten's own legal team put her political future at the center of a family court proceeding, and lost. Democrats who lecture the public about transparency tend to get uncomfortable when the standard applies to them.
Voters don't need a court order to notice when an elected official's first instinct is to reach for the seal.
A 34-year-old Pennsylvania man accused of stealing more than 100 sets of human remains from a historic cemetery appeared in Delaware County court Friday, where he waived his right to an evidentiary hearing in a case that the county's top prosecutor has called "a horror movie come to life."
Jonathan Gerlach now faces nearly 500 criminal charges, including burglary, abuse of a corpse, and desecration of monuments, after investigators say they recovered a staggering collection of skulls, bones, and decomposing body parts from his home in Ephrata and a separate storage unit. The case, which began with a January arrest at Mount Moriah Cemetery near Philadelphia, has expanded across multiple counties and left investigators struggling to explain what they found.
During Friday's hearing at the Delaware County Courthouse in Media, prosecutors dropped two burglary charges but filed additional counts tied to alleged cemetery break-ins in Lancaster and Luzerne counties. Gerlach remains behind bars with bail set at $1 million, Fox News Digital reported. Court records do not indicate whether he has entered a plea, and an attorney representing him could not be immediately identified Friday.
The case traces back to a months-long investigation into repeated break-ins at Mount Moriah Cemetery in Yeadon, Pennsylvania. Police conducting surveillance at the cemetery spotted bones and skulls inside Gerlach's vehicle. Officers later observed him leaving the grounds carrying a burlap bag, a crowbar, and other tools.
Gerlach was arrested at the cemetery on Tuesday, January 6, 2026. What investigators found afterward at his home and storage unit was far worse than what they had seen at the cemetery itself.
The Associated Press reported that police found more than 100 skulls, long bones, mummified hands and feet, two decomposing torsos, and other skeletal remains scattered throughout the locations. At least 26 mausoleums and vaults at Mount Moriah had been forced open during the course of the alleged thefts.
Delaware County District Attorney Tanner Rouse described the scene in blunt terms. As the New York Post reported, Rouse told the public:
"Very simply, detectives walked into a horror movie come to life in that home."
Rouse elaborated on the condition of the remains in remarks to reporters, saying some had been arranged in disturbing fashion inside the residence.
"They were in various states. Some of them were hanging, as it were. Some of them were pieced together, some were just skulls on a shelf."
Prosecutors approved roughly 500 criminal charges against Gerlach, including 100 counts each of abuse of a corpse and receiving stolen property, along with burglary, trespassing, theft, and multiple desecration-related offenses. Authorities allege he admitted to stealing approximately 30 sets of remains, far fewer than the more than 100 full or partial sets investigators ultimately recovered.
The gap between what Gerlach allegedly confessed to and what police actually found raises obvious questions about how long this went on and how many cemeteries were targeted. Prosecutors have already expanded the case beyond Delaware County, filing additional counts in Lancaster and Luzerne counties for alleged break-ins at cemeteries there.
Yeadon Borough Police Chief Henry Giammarco did not mince words about what his officers encountered. "In my 30-year career, probably one of the most horrific things," he said.
Even Rouse, the district attorney, acknowledged that investigators have not been able to determine a clear motive. "Given the enormity of what we are looking at and the sheer, utter lack of reasonable explanation, it's difficult to say right now, at this juncture, exactly what took place. We're trying to figure it out," he told reporters.
Outside the courthouse Friday, family members whose ancestors were buried at Mount Moriah spoke with reporters about what the case means to them. Judy Prichard McCleary, whose family members' remains were among those allegedly disturbed, addressed the press alongside Greg Prichard.
McCleary's words were measured but pointed:
"I believe their souls are in heaven. I still think it's disruptive."
That quiet statement carries weight. These are not abstract victims. They are real families who buried loved ones in a historic cemetery and trusted that the dead would rest undisturbed. Whatever drove Gerlach's alleged conduct, the people left to absorb the consequences are the ones standing outside a courthouse trying to make sense of something that defies easy explanation.
Mount Moriah Cemetery itself is a landmark. Situated on the outskirts of Philadelphia, it has served as a final resting place for generations. The forced entry into at least 26 mausoleums and vaults represents not just alleged criminal conduct but a violation of the basic compact between the living and the dead, one that communities across Pennsylvania will now have to reckon with.
Cases involving the desecration of human remains strike a particular nerve. In a legal landscape where courts are already wrestling with how the law treats burial and human remains, this case adds a grim chapter to the question of what protections the dead are owed under the law, and what happens when those protections fail.
The case leaves significant gaps. No motive has been publicly established. The location of the storage unit where remains were recovered has not been disclosed. Gerlach has not entered a plea, and his legal representation remains unclear.
Prosecutors have not explained how one individual allegedly managed to breach more than two dozen mausoleums and transport over 100 sets of remains without detection over what appears to have been an extended period. The months-long investigation that preceded Gerlach's arrest suggests law enforcement was aware of the break-ins for some time before making a move.
The sheer volume of charges, nearly 500, signals that prosecutors intend to pursue this aggressively. But the decision to drop two burglary counts while adding new ones from other counties suggests the case is still evolving, and the full scope of the alleged conduct may not yet be known.
Disturbing criminal cases are unfortunately not rare in this country. From a California woman who hid a body in her backyard for eight years to an Oregon father who fabricated a kidnapping story to cover up a killing, the capacity for concealment and deception in serious criminal cases continues to test public trust in the systems meant to protect communities.
What sets this Pennsylvania case apart is the scale. More than 100 sets of human remains. Nearly 500 charges. Multiple counties. And a defendant who, authorities allege, admitted to only a fraction of what investigators ultimately uncovered.
High-volume criminal charging cases like this one, similar in sheer count, if not in kind, to cases like the Louisiana parade crash that produced 18 counts of negligent injuring, test whether the justice system can deliver accountability proportional to the harm.
Gerlach remains in custody in Delaware County. His $1 million bail stands. With the evidentiary hearing waived, the case moves forward toward trial, though the timeline remains unclear.
The families of those buried at Mount Moriah, and at cemeteries in Lancaster and Luzerne counties, deserve answers. So do the taxpayers funding the investigation and prosecution. And so does a public that has every right to expect that when someone is laid to rest, they stay that way.
A society that cannot protect its dead from theft has a problem no amount of charges can fully fix.
Nadia Farès, the Moroccan-French actress best known for her role in the 2000 thriller The Crimson Rivers, died Friday after spending more than a week in a coma following a medical emergency at a Paris gym. She was 57.
Her daughters, Cylia and Shana Chasman, confirmed the death in a statement to Agence France-Presse, saying Farès suffered cardiac arrest on April 17. Variety reported that Farès had been found unconscious on April 11 in a swimming pool at the private sports complex Blanche in Paris.
A fellow swimmer pulled Farès from the water and attempted CPR before emergency responders transported her to Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. Doctors placed her in an artificially induced coma. Six days later, cardiac arrest took her life.
Le Figaro reported that French authorities opened an investigation into the cause of Farès' injuries but that "no offense has been identified at this stage." The phrasing leaves open the possibility that the incident was a medical event rather than anything criminal, but no official determination has been made public.
What exactly happened in that pool remains unclear. The fact pack contains no toxicology results, no witness accounts beyond the unnamed swimmer who performed CPR, and no statement from the sports complex itself. For her family, the questions are secondary to the loss.
Cylia and Shana Chasman said in their statement to AFP:
"It is with immense sadness that we announce the passing of Nadia Farès this Friday. France has lost a great artist, but for us, it is above all a mother whom we have just lost."
Those words, "above all a mother", cut through the celebrity obituary format. Two young women lost their mom at 57, and no headline can carry the weight of that.
Farès was born December 20, 1968, in Marrakesh, Morocco. She grew up in Nice before moving to Paris to build a career in film. Her debut came in 1992 with My Wife's Girlfriends, and she spent the next decade carving out a place in French cinema.
Her breakout arrived in 2000. Mathieu Kassovitz directed The Crimson Rivers, a dark mystery-thriller that paired Farès with Jean Reno and Vincent Cassel. The film became one of the more memorable French genre entries of its era and gave Farès international visibility.
The entertainment world has lost several well-known performers in recent months, each departure a reminder of how quickly a career built over decades can be reduced to a single paragraph.
By 2007, Farès had crossed into English-language productions, appearing as Agent Jade Kinler in War and as Pia in Storm Warning. Both films showed a willingness to work across genres and borders, a versatility that kept her name in circulation on both sides of the Atlantic.
In 2009, Farès stepped away from acting. She married Los Angeles, based producer Steve Chasman and moved to the United States. The couple had two daughters together. For seven years, Farès lived outside the spotlight.
She returned to the screen in 2016 with Netflix's drama series Marseille, a political thriller set in the southern French port city. The role marked a comeback after a long absence, and signaled that Farès still had the draw to land a prestige project on a global platform.
Farès and Chasman eventually separated in 2022, and she moved back to France. She is survived by her two daughters.
The French investigation referenced by Le Figaro has not produced a public finding on what caused Farès to lose consciousness in the pool. Whether the incident stemmed from a pre-existing condition, an undiagnosed cardiac issue, or something else entirely has not been disclosed. Authorities have said only that no criminal conduct has been identified so far.
The timeline itself raises questions. Farès was found unconscious on April 11. She suffered cardiac arrest on April 17. She died on Friday. That span, more than a week in a medically induced coma, suggests doctors fought to save her. They could not.
Fifty-seven is too young. A mother of two, a woman who built a career across two continents and then walked away from it to raise a family, deserved more time than that.
President Donald Trump told NATO to "stay away" after the alliance contacted him to offer help in the Strait of Hormuz, help that arrived, in Trump's view, only after the crisis had already passed and the United States had handled it alone.
The exchange, which Trump disclosed Friday on Truth Social, came the same day Iran announced it had fully reopened the strait to commercial vessels. Trump made clear the gesture did not impress him.
Newsmax reported that Trump wrote on Truth Social: "Now that the Hormuz Strait situation is over, I received a call from NATO asking if we would need some help." He followed with a blunt dismissal in capital letters:
"I TOLD THEM TO STAY AWAY, UNLESS THEY JUST WANT TO LOAD UP THEIR SHIPS WITH OIL. They were useless when needed, a Paper Tiger!"
The post capped weeks of escalating frustration between the White House and America's transatlantic allies over what Trump views as their failure to stand beside the United States during the confrontation with Iran. And it raises a question that European capitals would rather not answer: if NATO cannot muster the will to help secure a waterway that carries one-fifth of the world's oil supply, what exactly is the alliance for?
Even with Iran declaring the strait open again, Trump said the U.S. blockade on Iranian ships and ports "will remain in full force" until Tehran reaches a deal with the United States, including on its nuclear program. The reopening of the waterway, in other words, did not end the broader standoff.
The Strait of Hormuz, a narrow passage between Iran and Oman, is one of the most strategically important chokepoints on earth. Roughly one-fifth of global oil supply passes through it. When Iran moved to restrict access, Trump called on NATO allies to help ensure safe passage for tankers. The response, by his account, was silence, until the problem resolved itself.
That timeline matters. Trump did not reject allied help out of isolationism. He rejected it because it came late. At a Turning Point USA event, the Washington Examiner reported, Trump compared NATO's post-crisis offer to a campaign contribution made after an election is already won. "And NATO, after we won, that doesn't count either, it's the same thing," he said.
British Prime Minister Keir Starmer drew particular fire from Trump. Starmer initially declined Trump's request to use U.K. military bases for strikes on Iran, citing possible international law violations. But after Iran retaliated in March, Starmer reversed course and allowed the U.S. to use Royal Air Force base Fairford for what were described as "defensive" strikes.
The reversal did not earn Starmer any goodwill. When the British prime minister later offered to send two aircraft carriers to the Gulf, Trump rejected the gesture outright. In an earlier Truth Social post, Trump wrote:
"That's OK, Prime Minister Starmer, we don't need them any longer, But we will remember. We don't need people that join Wars after we've already won!"
The pattern, refuse to help, then scramble to participate once the hard part is over, is precisely the dynamic that has fueled Trump's long-running critique of the alliance. It is also the pattern that prompted even some Republicans to weigh in on NATO's future, with Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell breaking with the president to defend the alliance.
French President Emmanuel Macron and Starmer, meanwhile, announced they would press forward with a separate international mission to restore maritime security in the strait. Starmer said the mission would be deployed "as soon as conditions allow." Military planners are set to meet in London next week. A prior meeting in Paris drew about 50 countries and international organizations, Fortune reported.
France and the U.K. described the planned multinational fleet as "strictly defensive." But the timing is awkward. The mission was announced after Trump had already urged allies to join a similar coalition, and after they had declined.
NATO Secretary-General Mark Rutte offered a partial admission during a speech last week at the Reagan Institute's Center for Peace Through Strength in Washington, D.C. Rutte said the alliance had been "a bit slow" in supporting U.S. efforts against Iran, though he added that Trump bore some responsibility for not informing allies ahead of time.
That concession did not calm the waters. Breitbart reported that even after a private meeting with Rutte, Trump posted that NATO "wasn't there when we needed them." White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt confirmed that Trump had discussed the possibility of leaving NATO with the secretary-general directly.
"They were tested, and they failed," Leavitt said, quoting the president's assessment of the alliance.
Trump's anger extends beyond the Hormuz crisis itself. Some NATO allies, including Spain and France, reportedly forbade or restricted use of their airspace or joint military facilities during U.S. operations against Iran. That kind of obstruction, from treaty partners who expect American protection under Article 5, is what drives the "paper tiger" label.
The White House is not merely venting. The New York Post reported that Trump is weighing concrete steps to punish NATO members he believes failed the United States during the Iran conflict. One proposal would withdraw U.S. troops from countries deemed unhelpful, with Spain and Germany specifically mentioned as possible locations for base closures.
Trump has also publicly mused about pulling the United States out of NATO entirely. "I was never swayed by NATO," he told The Daily Telegraph, as Fox News reported. "I always knew they were a paper tiger, and Putin knows that too, by the way."
Whether Trump follows through on withdrawal remains an open question. But the threat itself reshapes the alliance's internal politics. European leaders now face a president who does not merely grumble about burden-sharing, he names names, keeps score, and signals consequences. The usual diplomatic formula of vague pledges and delayed action no longer buys goodwill in Washington.
The broader pattern of Trump moving on from relationships he views as broken is not limited to foreign policy. Domestically, the president has shown a similar willingness to cut ties when loyalty or competence falls short of his expectations.
The Strait of Hormuz episode laid bare a structural problem that predates Trump. NATO was designed as a collective defense pact. Its credibility depends on the premise that an attack on one is an attack on all. But when the world's most important oil chokepoint was threatened, most of the alliance sat on its hands.
Trump's critics will say he provoked the crisis with Iran in the first place. His supporters will note that the crisis is exactly the kind of scenario NATO was built to address, and that the alliance's absence proved his point. Either way, the result is the same: the United States acted alone, the strait reopened, and NATO showed up afterward asking if anyone needed a hand.
Starmer's trajectory is especially telling. He refused to help, cited international law, reversed himself when Iran escalated, offered aircraft carriers too late, and now plans a defensive mission alongside Macron. That is not an ally acting from conviction. It is a leader reacting to events he never tried to shape.
The domestic political fallout from Trump's Iran posture continues to generate sharp debate in Washington. But overseas, the more pressing question is whether NATO can survive a president who has concluded the alliance adds nothing when it matters most.
Trump's blockade of Iranian ships and ports remains in place. The deal he demands, covering Iran's nuclear program, has not materialized. Military planners will meet in London. European leaders will issue statements. And the United States will continue doing what it did before NATO called: handling the problem itself.
An alliance that only shows up after the fight is over is not an alliance. It is a mailing list.
Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard's office has referred at least two former Intelligence Community officials to the Justice Department for criminal investigation, targeting the former inspector general and the whistleblower whose actions set the first impeachment of President Trump in motion. The referrals, written by ODNI's general counsel, cite "possible criminal activity" connected to the handling of the 2019 whistleblower complaint about Trump's phone call with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky.
The move came days after Gabbard released a trove of newly declassified documents that her office says expose how the complaint was advanced despite signs of political bias, and how key evidence was withheld from the lawmakers who voted to impeach.
An ODNI spokesperson confirmed the referral to the New York Post, stating it was "related to one or more former employees of the Intelligence Community and their role in the 2019 impeachment of President Trump." The Justice Department did not immediately respond to the Post's request for comment.
Fox News reported that former Intelligence Community Inspector General Michael Atkinson and the unnamed whistleblower were the individuals targeted. The referrals reference Atkinson's discussions and briefings with the House Intelligence Committee in 2019, interactions Gabbard's office says did not follow proper procedure.
Gabbard described the whistleblower as "a former CIA employee who was working hand in glove with Democrats in Congress." Newly declassified records and testimony indicate the whistleblower contacted congressional Democrats before filing the formal complaint, a detail that raises pointed questions about whether the process was coordinated rather than independent, as it was presented at the time.
Gabbard's office found that Atkinson identified signs of political bias on the part of the whistleblower but still treated the complaint as an "urgent concern" and forwarded it to Congress. The declassified documents, which include transcripts of Atkinson's closed-door testimony before the House Intelligence Committee, were withheld from House lawmakers handling the impeachment inquiry.
That is a significant detail. The members of Congress who voted to impeach a sitting president apparently never saw the testimony of the inspector general who launched the process, testimony that, Gabbard now says, would have revealed the complaint's shaky foundation.
Gabbard did not mince words. In a statement, she laid out what she called a pattern of deliberate manipulation inside the Intelligence Community:
"Deep state actors within the Intelligence Community concocted a false narrative that was used by Congress to usurp the will of the American people and impeach the duly-elected President of the United States."
She went further, singling out Atkinson by name and the whistleblower by role. Gabbard has faced intense scrutiny in recent months over her leadership of the intelligence apparatus, including questions about her standing within the administration and clashes with congressional critics.
But on this matter, she was direct. In a post on X, she wrote that newly declassified records "expose how deep state actors within the Intelligence Community concocted a false narrative that Congress used to usurp the will of the American people and impeach duly-elected President @realDonaldTrump in 2019."
In her formal statement, Gabbard added:
"Inspector General Atkinson failed to uphold his responsibility to the American people, putting political motivations over the truth. And this, along with the politicization of the whistleblower process by a former CIA employee who was working hand in glove with Democrats in Congress, are egregious examples of the deep state playbook on how to weaponize the Intelligence Community."
She said the referrals and the release of the documents serve a broader purpose:
"Exposing these tactics and showing how they undermine the fabric of our democratic republic furthers the critical cause of transparency and accountability and will help prevent future abuse of power."
The referral itself, drafted by ODNI's general counsel, was explicit in its scope. Just the News reported that the document stated: "I want to refer information that may constitute possible criminal activity in violation of federal criminal law committed by one or more former employees of the intelligence community." No specific criminal statutes were identified in the available reporting.
Gabbard's office has alleged that Atkinson "weaponized the whistle-blower process" and used his office to "manufacture a conspiracy that was used as the basis to impeach President Trump." These are strong claims, and the declassified material, including Atkinson's previously hidden testimony, will now be subject to public and legal scrutiny.
It is worth noting that a criminal referral is not a charge. It is a formal request that prosecutors examine whether laws were broken. The DOJ has not announced any action, and no arrests have been reported. Whether the department under its current leadership pursues the matter will be the next chapter of this story.
The documents released by Gabbard earlier this week paint a picture of an inspector general who, by her office's account, saw red flags and proceeded anyway. Gabbard's office says the records show Atkinson "seemingly ignored evidence suggesting the whistleblower was biased against Trump", and then sent the complaint to Congress without disclosing that bias to lawmakers.
The whistleblower's complaint centered on Trump's July 2019 call with Zelensky, which Democrats argued amounted to a quid pro quo, conditioning U.S. military aid on Ukraine's willingness to investigate political rivals. That complaint became the foundation of the first impeachment.
But if the whistleblower was in contact with Democratic members of Congress before filing the complaint, as the Washington Times reported, citing newly declassified material, the entire premise of an independent, nonpartisan whistleblower process comes into question. That is not a minor procedural quibble. It goes to the legitimacy of the impeachment itself.
Gabbard's broader effort to bring accountability to the Intelligence Community has unfolded amid other high-profile controversies. Her office was reportedly kept in the dark about an FBI investigation into a senior official before his resignation, a separate episode that raised its own questions about information flow within the intelligence apparatus.
For years, conservatives have argued that the 2019 impeachment was built on a politicized intelligence process, that officials with axes to grind used their positions to engineer a predetermined outcome. That argument was dismissed by Democrats and much of the media as conspiracy thinking.
The declassified transcripts and the criminal referrals now give that argument documentary support, at least in outline. Whether the evidence holds up under prosecutorial review is another matter. But the fact that the nation's top intelligence official is willing to put the names of former colleagues in front of federal prosecutors signals that this is not a messaging exercise.
Gabbard has also publicly pushed back against Senate critics who challenged her handling of whistleblower-related timelines, calling their accusations "a blatant lie." The pattern is consistent: Gabbard has positioned herself as willing to confront the Intelligence Community's internal culture of self-protection, even when it draws fire from both sides of the aisle.
Several important questions remain unanswered. What specific criminal statutes, if any, does the referral cite? What precisely did Atkinson's closed-door testimony reveal that was kept from impeachment investigators? And will the Justice Department act on the referral, or let it gather dust?
The identity of the whistleblower, though widely speculated about in media circles since 2019, has never been officially confirmed. Gabbard's referral does not name the individual publicly, describing the person only as "a former CIA employee." That individual now faces the prospect of a federal criminal inquiry into conduct that was, at the time, celebrated by Democrats as courageous public service.
Gabbard has also overseen other significant law-enforcement actions under the current administration, reinforcing her role as a hands-on intelligence chief rather than a figurehead.
The 2019 impeachment divided the country. It consumed months of congressional energy, dominated the news cycle, and ended with an acquittal in the Senate. If the process that launched it was tainted from the start, if the watchdog ignored bias, if the whistleblower coordinated with partisans, if the transcripts were hidden, then the American public deserves to know. And someone should answer for it.
Accountability delayed is not accountability denied. But it does test the patience of the people who were told to trust the process, and are only now learning what the process actually looked like.
Sen. Eric Schmitt, R-Mo., called on the House of Representatives Tuesday to impeach Chief Judge James Boasberg after a federal appeals court shut down the judge's contempt investigation of Trump administration officials and labeled it a "clear abuse of discretion." The demand came minutes after the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit issued a 2-1 ruling ordering Boasberg to end his probe into whether officials defied his earlier order halting deportation flights of Venezuelan migrants to El Salvador.
Schmitt, a member of the Senate Judiciary Committee, posted his call on X shortly after the ruling dropped. Newsmax reported that the Missouri senator framed the appeals court's own language as grounds for removal.
Schmitt wrote on X:
"The D.C. Circuit ruled Boasberg's contempt crusade against Trump officials is an 'improper investigation' and 'clear abuse of discretion.' He tried to imprison Trump officials for deporting Venezuelan gang members. I'm calling on the House: Impeach Rogue Judge Boasberg."
The ruling marks the second time the D.C. Circuit panel has intervened against Boasberg in this dispute. In an earlier ruling, the same panel halted the judge's initial contempt-related actions in the case. Tuesday's decision went further, ordering him to end the probe entirely.
The three-judge panel's majority opinion was written by a judge appointed by President Donald Trump. The majority warned that Boasberg's investigation risked becoming an open-ended review of executive branch decisions on national security and immigration enforcement, territory the appeals court found the district judge had no business occupying.
The New York Post reported that the majority described Boasberg's contempt effort as "intrusive" and a "legal dead end," in addition to calling it a clear abuse of discretion. That language handed Schmitt, and any House member inclined to act, a ready-made set of appellate findings to cite.
A judge appointed by former President Joe Biden dissented. The dissenting opinion argued the ruling could undermine the courts' contempt power and the rule of law. But the dissent did not carry the day, and the majority's order stands.
The broader pattern of Republican efforts to impeach federal judges over Trump policy rulings has been building for months, and Tuesday's appeals court decision gave those efforts fresh ammunition.
The confrontation traces back to March 2025, when the Trump administration invoked the Alien Enemies Act to deport Venezuelan migrants, some accused of gang ties, to El Salvador. Boasberg issued an emergency order halting the removals and requiring due process. Administration officials allowed the flights to proceed anyway.
That defiance triggered Boasberg's contempt investigation, which the appeals court has now dismantled in two stages. The first intervention halted the judge's initial contempt-related actions. The second, on Tuesday, ordered him to shut the investigation down for good.
Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche welcomed the decision in his own post on X:
"Today's decision by the DC Circuit should finally end Judge Boasberg's year-long campaign against the hardworking Department attorneys doing their jobs fighting illegal immigration."
Blanche's characterization, "year-long campaign", underscores how long the legal standoff has dragged on, consuming Justice Department resources while immigration enforcement remained in limbo.
Schmitt's impeachment call did not land in a vacuum. Breitbart reported that Sen. Bill Hagerty previously urged the House to open impeachment proceedings against Boasberg on separate grounds, accusing the judge of conspiring with Biden-aligned figures to approve surveillance targeting Republican lawmakers, Trump staff, and Trump himself. Sens. Ted Cruz and Schmitt had also backed impeachment calls at that time.
Cruz stated at a press conference: "I am right now calling on the House to impeach Judge Boasberg." That earlier push centered on alleged surveillance-related overreach. Tuesday's call adds a second, distinct set of grievances, the contempt probe, to the impeachment argument.
The growing list of senators calling for Boasberg's removal reflects a broader frustration among conservatives with judges who, in their view, have used the bench to obstruct lawful executive action. Similar accountability debates have surfaced in other contexts, including Sen. Blackburn's call for the Chief Justice to investigate Justice Jackson's conduct at a public event featuring anti-ICE statements.
Federal judges serve during "good behaviour" under the Constitution, and impeachment is the only mechanism for removal. The House would need a simple majority to approve articles of impeachment. A Senate trial would follow, requiring a two-thirds vote to convict and remove the judge from the bench.
No immediate steps toward impeachment proceedings were announced Tuesday. The New York Post noted that while House Republicans could pursue the effort, the Senate would likely lack the two-thirds majority needed to convict. That political reality has not stopped the calls from growing louder, or from gaining new factual footing each time a higher court rebukes Boasberg's conduct.
The ruling itself does not affect Boasberg's ongoing duties as chief judge of the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. He remains on the bench, presiding over cases, a fact that frustrates the senators pressing for his removal.
The question of when judges cross from legitimate oversight into political overreach has become one of the defining tensions of the Trump era. Past episodes, from declassified documents raising new questions about Trump's first impeachment to state-level clashes over judicial conduct, have all tested the same boundary.
The D.C. Circuit's majority did not mince words. Calling the contempt investigation "improper" and an abuse of discretion is among the sharpest rebukes an appellate panel can deliver to a sitting district judge. The majority's warning, that the probe risked becoming an open-ended review of executive branch decisions on national security and immigration enforcement, draws a bright line around the separation of powers.
For the Trump administration, the ruling validates its position that the deportation flights were lawful exercises of executive authority under the Alien Enemies Act, and that a single district judge had no business launching what amounted to a criminal investigation of senior officials for carrying out immigration policy.
For Boasberg's defenders, the dissent's argument, that reining in contempt power weakens the judiciary's ability to enforce its own orders, will remain a talking point. But the dissent lost, and the majority's language is now part of the permanent record.
In Florida, a parallel debate played out when Gov. DeSantis demanded the state House impeach a judge over a separate controversy, a reminder that the impeachment tool, rarely used, is gaining traction across the conservative movement as a response to judicial conduct that elected officials view as lawless.
Just The News reported that the appeals court described Boasberg's proceedings as an improper judicial investigation into "high-level executive branch deliberations." Whether any House member introduces actual articles of impeachment remains to be seen. No such filing has been announced.
Several questions remain unanswered. Which specific contempt-related conduct was Boasberg investigating? What procedural effect does the D.C. Circuit order have beyond ending the probe? And which, if any, House members plan to act on calls from Schmitt, Hagerty, and Cruz?
When an appeals court calls a judge's conduct an abuse of discretion and an improper investigation, and then orders him to stop, the question isn't whether accountability is warranted. It's whether anyone in the House has the nerve to deliver it.
Rep. Nancy Pelosi flatly denied this week that Democrats turned a "blind eye" to sexual misconduct allegations against Rep. Eric Swalwell, insisting she had no knowledge of the accusations that have now driven the California congressman toward resignation.
"No. That's not true," the 86-year-old California Democrat told a reporter at the American Public Transportation Association's legislative conference when asked whether her party had ignored the mounting accusations. "That is absolutely positive, and it is true that they may say that, but it is absolutely not true."
The denial came days after Swalwell announced on Monday his intention to resign from the U.S. House, a move that followed accusations from several women, as Breitbart reported, and the suspension of his gubernatorial campaign. The speed of the collapse raises a question Pelosi's blanket denial does not answer: how did a sitting congressman face allegations from multiple women without anyone in Democratic leadership catching wind?
Pressed on whether she had any prior knowledge of the accusations against Swalwell, Pelosi did not hedge. She repeated herself three times in a single breath.
"None whatsoever. None whatsoever. I had none whatsoever."
She then endorsed Swalwell's decision to step down, calling it "the right thing to do, yes." Her reasoning, however, leaned more on political convenience than on accountability for the accusers. Pelosi framed the resignation as a way to spare House members from casting an uncomfortable vote on expulsion, and to spare Swalwell's family additional exposure.
Pelosi told reporters at the conference:
"Not to subject members to have to take a vote on something like that, and not to subject your family... If you have a challenge that you have to address, it's best addressed not as a candidate for governor and not as a member of Congress."
Notice what is missing from that calculus. Not a word about the women who came forward. Not a word about what the party plans to learn from the episode. The concern, as Pelosi articulated it, was for the caucus and for Swalwell's household, not for the accusers who set the chain of events in motion.
The accusations against Swalwell began with a former staffer who told the San Francisco Chronicle that he had allegedly sexually assaulted her on different occasions. Several other women subsequently came forward with their own misconduct claims. The specific details of each woman's account were not fully outlined in the initial reporting, and their names have not been publicly disclosed.
Swalwell first suspended his gubernatorial campaign. Then, on Monday, he announced his plan to leave Congress entirely. His public statement acknowledged the political pressure bearing down on him but framed the decision around his constituents.
Pelosi has long wielded outsized influence in Democratic politics, backing favored candidates in high-profile races and shaping the party's internal power structure for decades. That influence makes her claim of total ignorance harder to accept at face value, particularly when the allegations involved a fellow California Democrat who served in her caucus.
"I am aware of efforts to bring an immediate expulsion vote against me and other members. Expelling anyone in Congress without due process, within days of an allegation being made, is wrong. But it's also wrong for my constituents to have me distracted from my duties."
Swalwell added that he would work with his staff "in the coming days to ensure they are able, in my absence, to serve the needs of the good people of the 14th congressional district."
Swalwell's resignation announcement did not come in a vacuum. Rep. Anna Paulina Luna warned before noon on Tuesday that she would continue her resolution to expel Swalwell if he did not formally resign by 2 p.m. that day. Luna cited the lack of specifics in Swalwell's Monday statement, he said he "planned" to resign but did not set a firm date or file the paperwork immediately.
That pressure from Luna and other members made clear that the House was not going to let Swalwell run out the clock. Whether Swalwell met the 2 p.m. deadline or whether Luna proceeded with her expulsion resolution remains an open question based on available reporting.
The episode is the latest in a string of moments where Pelosi's public positioning has drawn scrutiny. She has clashed publicly with the Trump administration while simultaneously navigating criticism from within her own ranks and from outside observers who question whether Democratic leadership holds its own members to the same standards it demands of others.
Pelosi's "none whatsoever" defense is familiar. When uncomfortable facts surface about members of her caucus, the former Speaker's instinct is to claim distance rather than ownership. The question is not whether Pelosi personally witnessed misconduct. The question is whether Democratic leadership created an environment where allegations could circulate, and where multiple women could come forward to a major newspaper, without anyone in the chain of command asking questions.
Several women accused Swalwell. A former staffer went on the record with the San Francisco Chronicle about alleged sexual assault. And yet Pelosi, who has spent decades as the most powerful Democrat in the House, says she knew nothing.
Pelosi remains an active force in Democratic politics even now, endorsing candidates for Congress and working to shape the party's future. Her continued influence makes questions about her knowledge, or lack thereof, more than academic. If she truly had no idea, that itself is an indictment of how Democratic leadership monitors conduct within its own caucus.
Meanwhile, challengers are already eyeing Pelosi's own San Francisco seat, a sign that her grip on California's political landscape may not be as firm as it once was.
Key questions hang over this story. Did Swalwell formally file his resignation, or did he leave the door open with his "I plan to resign" language? Did Luna proceed with the expulsion resolution after her 2 p.m. deadline? And did any other Democrat, not just Pelosi, receive complaints or warnings about Swalwell's conduct before the San Francisco Chronicle report brought the accusations into public view?
Pelosi's triple denial may satisfy her allies. It should not satisfy anyone else. When several women accuse a sitting congressman of misconduct and the most powerful figure in his party says she had "no idea whatsoever," the options are limited: either leadership was willfully incurious, or the party's internal accountability structures are so weak they might as well not exist.
Neither answer reflects well on the people who spent years lecturing the rest of the country about believing women.
Rep. Eric Swalwell is fighting for his political life after multiple women accused the California Democrat of sexual misconduct, allegations he calls "flat false." But conservatives have long memories, and Swalwell's own words from the 2018 Brett Kavanaugh confirmation battle are making his defense far harder to swallow.
Nearly eight years ago, Swalwell stood among the loudest Democratic voices demanding that unproven accusations against Kavanaugh be treated as near-gospel. He urged a pause in the Supreme Court confirmation proceedings, called for additional investigation, and insisted that accusers be heard, even before their claims were tested. Now, facing accusations of his own, he wants the opposite standard applied to himself.
The contradiction is not subtle. It is the kind of double standard that corrodes public trust in Washington, and it deserves a full accounting.
Newsmax reported that several women have come forward with accusations against Swalwell ranging from inappropriate messages to more serious misconduct. The specific details of those allegations, including the identities of the accusers, the dates, and the locations of the alleged incidents, have not been publicly disclosed in full.
Swalwell responded with a video posted to his X account, in which he denied the claims categorically. He said the allegations "did not happen" and vowed to fight them.
"They did not happen. They have never happened."
He acknowledged making "mistakes in judgment" in his personal life but drew a firm line, calling the accusations "flat false" and pledging to contest them "with everything that I have."
That language, the blanket denial, the appeal for fairness, the insistence that unproven allegations should not define a man, will sound familiar to anyone who watched the Kavanaugh hearings in 2018. The difference is that Swalwell spent those hearings arguing the exact opposite.
During the bitter fight over Kavanaugh's nomination to the Supreme Court, Democrats seized on accusations of sexual misconduct to try to derail the confirmation. Swalwell was among the most vocal. He called for a pause in the proceedings to allow additional investigation. He urged that accusers be heard, even when their claims had not been proven.
In an interview on MS NOW at the time, Swalwell made a pointed argument about the weight of multiple accusations. He posed a question that now reads like an indictment of his own situation:
"What are the chances that three or four women, independently, who never met each other, would have similar experiences with one person?"
That was the standard Swalwell applied to Kavanaugh, a man who denied every allegation, who cooperated with an FBI review, and who was ultimately confirmed to the Supreme Court. Kavanaugh has since served on the bench and established a judicial record that defies easy partisan caricature.
But in 2018, Swalwell was not interested in nuance. He was interested in a scalp. The mere existence of multiple accusers, he argued, was itself evidence. Due process was an inconvenience. The accusers deserved belief; the accused deserved suspicion.
Apply Swalwell's own 2018 logic to his current situation. Several women, apparently unconnected, have made similar accusations against one man. By the congressman's own test, that pattern should be treated as significant. It should trigger investigation, a pause in his political ambitions, and a presumption that the accusers deserve to be heard.
Instead, Swalwell wants the benefit of the doubt. He wants the public to accept his blanket denial. He wants his acknowledgment of vague "mistakes in judgment" to serve as a firewall against more serious charges.
That is his right. Every American, including every member of Congress, deserves the presumption of innocence. Conservatives have always believed that. It was conservatives who defended Kavanaugh's right to due process when Democrats tried to destroy his career on the basis of uncorroborated accusations.
The issue is not whether Swalwell deserves fairness. He does. The issue is that he denied that same fairness to someone else when it was politically useful, and now expects the rest of us not to notice.
The political damage is already spreading. Swalwell's gubernatorial campaign has been thrown into turmoil. Some allies have distanced themselves. On Capitol Hill, lawmakers are weighing possible disciplinary action, including potential expulsion votes.
That last detail is worth pausing on. Expulsion from the House of Representatives is an extraordinary measure, reserved historically for the most serious offenses. The fact that it is even being discussed, however preliminarily, signals that the allegations against Swalwell are being taken seriously by his own colleagues.
The Supreme Court itself has remained a flashpoint in recent months. Kavanaugh and Justice Jackson recently clashed publicly over the Court's emergency docket, a reminder that the institution Democrats tried to reshape by destroying Kavanaugh's reputation continues to function, and to generate fierce debate on its own terms.
Swalwell, meanwhile, spent years positioning himself as a champion of women and a crusader against misconduct. He has said he spent decades advocating for victims of sexual assault. That record now sits in direct tension with the accusations against him, and with the way he chose to weaponize similar accusations against a political opponent.
The broader emergency-docket battles at the Supreme Court, including complaints from Justice Sotomayor about the pace of rulings, show that the Court Kavanaugh joined remains at the center of the country's most consequential legal fights. Democrats failed to keep him off the bench. The tools they used, including Swalwell's brand of accusation-as-evidence reasoning, did lasting damage to the confirmation process and to public faith in fair proceedings.
None of this means Swalwell is guilty. The allegations against him remain just that, allegations. They have not been proven. The accusers have not been publicly identified. The details are thin. A fair process should determine the truth.
But that is precisely the point. A fair process is what Swalwell refused to grant Brett Kavanaugh. He demanded that the mere number of accusers be treated as dispositive. He argued that a pause, an investigation, and a presumption of credibility for the accusers were the minimum requirements of decency.
Now he wants a different set of rules. He wants his denial accepted at face value. He wants his "mistakes in judgment" to be treated as a separate matter from the accusations. He wants the public to wait for evidence before passing judgment.
That is exactly the standard conservatives argued for in 2018. Kavanaugh himself has continued to defend process and institutional norms even as critics attack the Court from the left. The principle that accusations must be tested, not simply believed, was right then and it is right now.
Swalwell's problem is not that he is asking for fairness. His problem is that he spent years telling the country fairness was optional when the accused was on the other side of the aisle.
Washington is full of people who set standards they never expect to live by. Every so often, the bill comes due.