New York State Assemblymember Alex Bores told the world he walked away from Palantir — and millions of dollars — because he couldn't stomach the company's work with ICE.
A Bloomberg News report tells a different story: Bores resigned in February 2019, just five days after Palantir's legal department notified him of potential disciplinary action over sexually explicit comments allegedly made to a colleague.
Five days. Not a principled stand. A hasty exit.
The New York Post reported that Bores, 35, is now running to replace retiring Rep. Jerrold Nadler in Manhattan's heavily Democratic 12th Congressional District — a race where his origin story as a tech worker who chose conscience over cash is central to his pitch. That pitch now has a credibility problem.
On January 23, Bores posted on X with the kind of moral clarity candidates love to project:
"I quit Palantir over its ICE contract, choosing principle over my career and millions of dollars."
He followed that with a second post framing himself as the target of corporate retaliation:
"They profited off of it, and are now using those funds to lie to New Yorkers and attack me."
It's a tidy narrative. A young software engineer stares down a powerful defense contractor, sacrifices a lucrative career, and emerges on the other side as a public servant. The kind of story Democratic primary voters in Manhattan devour.
Except Bloomberg's reporting — based on people familiar with the matter — suggests the timeline doesn't hold up.
According to the report, Bores worked at Palantir from 2014 to 2019. During his first year, he attended a client offsite meeting with Kimberly-Clark where an employee reportedly referenced tissue usage data and made what was described as an implicit reference to masturbation — noting that the top three reported tissue uses accounted for less than half of total usage, with the implication being obvious.
Years later, Bores allegedly recounted that anecdote to a colleague. A complaint was filed. Palantir's legal department sent Bores a notification of potential disciplinary action. Five days after that notification, he was gone.
Bloomberg's sources also reported that in his exit interview, Bores cited burnout and excessive travel — not ICE contracts — as his reasons for leaving.
Bores' spokeswoman, Alyssa Cass, pushed back aggressively. She called the Bloomberg report:
"A wildly overblown characterization from 'sources' within a company that has named Alex Bores public enemy #1."
Cass acknowledged the basics — that a complaint was filed and HR spoke to Bores about it — but disputed everything else. She told The Post:
"A complaint was filed, and HR asked Alex about it."
She added that:
"The matter was dropped."
As for the five-day timeline between the warning letter and his departure, Cass called it:
"Made up and the timeline proves it."
She said Bores had already secured another job offer before leaving Palantir. After his departure, he joined an AI-focused startup and later worked at fintech firm Promise Pay before launching a political career that landed him in the New York State Assembly in 2022.
Let's stipulate that retelling an off-color story from a client meeting may not be the scandal of the century. Workplace complaints exist on a spectrum, and the underlying incident — repeating a crude joke about tissue usage data — is hardly Harvey Weinstein territory.
But that's not the issue. The issue is that Bores built a campaign narrative around a noble resignation that appears, at minimum, to have been significantly more complicated than he let on. He didn't just omit context.
He actively constructed a heroic version of events and used it to fundraise, campaign, and position himself as a man of principle in a crowded Democratic primary.
If the Bloomberg timeline is accurate, Bores didn't quit Palantir to fight ICE. He quit Palantir because the walls were closing in — and then retrofitted the story into a political asset years later.
That's not a misjudgment. That's a fabrication strategy.
This is a familiar playbook on the progressive left: claim moral authority not from what you've actually done, but from the story you tell about what you've done. The résumé becomes mythology. The mythology becomes the campaign. And anyone who questions it is accused of acting in bad faith — in this case, supposedly on behalf of a vengeful corporation.
Bores has made artificial intelligence regulation and opposition to the ICE centerpieces of his congressional campaign. Both positions play well in a Manhattan district where the primary is the only election that matters.
But if the foundation of his candidacy — the reason voters should trust his judgment and his character — is a story that doesn't survive contact with a Bloomberg FOIA request, what exactly is he selling?
Financial disclosures show Bores and his wife hold between $2 million and $3.7 million in combined assets. He's not the scrappy idealist who gave it all up. He's a multimillionaire former tech worker who left one lucrative gig, moved through two more, and then decided to run for office with a convenient origin story.
The Post sought comment from both Palantir and Kimberly-Clark. Neither responded by publication time. Bloomberg's sources remain anonymous. The colleague who filed the complaint has not been identified.
That leaves voters in the 12th District with a straightforward question: Do you trust the man who told you one story, or the reporting that suggests it was another?
In a district that will almost certainly send a Democrat to Congress, the primary is everything. And in a primary, character is supposed to matter. Bores asked voters to believe he sacrificed millions for principle. Now they'll have to decide whether that sacrifice ever actually happened — or whether it was just another line on a carefully curated campaign page.
Manhattan Democrats deserve better than a candidate whose founding myth crumbles under basic reporting. Then again, they keep electing the ones whose myths crumble slowest.
Hillary Clinton stepped off a first-class ICE high-speed train at platform 22 in Munich's central station on Thursday, surrounded by aides and flanked by an armed German Federal police officer. The former Secretary of State had just completed the four-hour rail journey from Berlin — reportedly because a nationwide airline strike grounded hundreds of flights across Germany, including the ten hourly Lufthansa shuttles that normally run between the two cities.
The image writes itself: a former U.S. presidential candidate, once accustomed to Air Force jets and motorcades, climbing down from a Deutsche Bahn carriage because German unions decided Thursday was the day to walk off the job over retirement benefits.
Michaela Kuefner, Chief Political Editor at Deutsche Welle News, captured the scene:
"Hillary Clinton arrives by train from Berlin… No hassle from people asking about those files. No hot drinks because of a power failure in the bistro for half the trip."
No hot drinks. A power failure in the bistro car. It's the kind of detail that needs no editorial seasoning.
Clinton arrived ahead of the Munich Security Conference, which runs Friday through Sunday. But as Breitbart News reported, the real story isn't who's arriving by rail — it's the shadow that still hangs over this conference from last year, when Vice President JD Vance walked onto the same stage and delivered a speech that left Europe's diplomatic establishment in visible distress.
Vance, serving as President Trump's emissary, challenged European leaders directly on their own democratic commitments:
"For years we've been told everything we fund and support is in the name of our shared democratic values… But when we see European courts cancelling elections and senior officials, threatening to cancel others, we have to ask if we are holding ourselves to an appropriately high standard. And I say ourselves because I fundamentally think we are on the same team. We must do more than talk about democratic values, we must live them."
Conference boss Christoph Heusgen — a top German diplomat — broke down in tears in response. The speech forced a conversation that European elites had spent years avoiding: whether the continent's increasingly heavy-handed approach to speech regulation and electoral intervention was compatible with the democratic values it claimed to defend.
That conversation clearly hasn't ended.
This year, Secretary of State Marco Rubio leads the U.S. delegation. According to the Associated Press, the conference "warily" awaits his arrival — a revealing word choice. U.S. officials indicated his speech is intended to be "less contentious but philosophically similar" to Vance's 2025 address.
Read that framing carefully. The AP treats an American official speaking plainly about democratic principles as something a European security conference must brace for. The wariness isn't about substance — it's about the discomfort that comes when someone says out loud what polite diplomatic circles would rather leave unsaid.
"Philosophically similar" is the key phrase. The administration isn't retreating from the core message Vance delivered. It's delivering it through a different voice, with a different tone — but the substance holds. Europe's allies are expected to live by the values they invoke when asking for American support. That's not contentious. That's the baseline.
What, exactly, brings Hillary Clinton to the Munich Security Conference in the current moment? The fact sheet doesn't say, and Clinton herself offered no public remarks upon arrival. She is there, presumably, in some unofficial capacity — a former Secretary of State still orbiting the international circuit that once defined her career.
There's an irony worth noting. Clinton arrives at a conference still reverberating from Vance's challenge to European democratic backsliding — the very kind of frank, uncomfortable diplomacy that the foreign policy establishment she represents spent decades avoiding. The old guard traveled to Munich to reassure. The current administration travels to Munich to recalibrate.
Meanwhile, Lufthansa told passengers with grounded domestic flights they could exchange tickets at no extra cost for Deutsche Bahn train passes. Hundreds of flights were cancelled in a single day because unions walked out over retirement benefits. Germany's infrastructure, once the pride of European efficiency, reduced Clinton and countless other travelers to four-hour rail commutes with no hot coffee.
The Munich Security Conference used to function as a comfortable annual ritual — Western leaders affirming their shared commitment to the transatlantic order, exchanging pleasantries, and returning home having changed nothing. Vance broke that pattern last year. Rubio appears poised to maintain it this year, not with provocation for its own sake, but with the simple insistence that words and actions align.
That shouldn't be a radical proposition. The fact that European diplomats greet it with tears and wariness tells you everything about how far the gap between rhetoric and reality has stretched.
Clinton rode the train to Munich. The world she helped build is the one being asked to account for itself when she gets there.
A federal judge struck down California's ban on face coverings for federal law enforcement officers this week, handing the Trump administration a clean legal victory and exposing a rift between Governor Gavin Newsom and the state senator who authored the law.
Judge Christina Snyder blocked enforcement of the mask ban on Monday while upholding a separate California law requiring federal agents to visibly display identification. The ruling turned on a straightforward problem: the law banned federal agents from covering their faces during operations but exempted state and local police. The court deemed that the carve-out was unfair.
The result is a law that was designed to obstruct federal immigration enforcement — struck down because its authors couldn't even write it consistently.
Newsom signed the mask ban last fall in response to ICE officers wearing face coverings during immigration operations in Los Angeles. At the time, the governor framed the issue in the most dramatic terms possible:
"Masked men jumping out of unmarked cars, people disappearing, no due process, no oversight, zero accountability, happening in the United States of America today."
"These are authoritarian actions by an authoritarian government."
State Senator Scott Wiener authored the bill and reportedly intended it to apply to all law enforcement — federal, state, and local. But the version Newsom signed exempted state police, a carve-out that reportedly came from negotiations with the governor's own office, according to the Daily Mail.
That exemption became the law's fatal flaw. You cannot argue that masked law enforcement is a threat to civil liberties and then protect the right of your own state troopers to do the same thing. The court noticed.
What followed the ruling was not a unified Democratic response. It was a public finger-pointing exercise.
Newsom's press office wasted no time putting the loss on Wiener:
"Mr. Wiener rejected our proposed fixes to his bill — language that was later included in the identification bill the court upheld today. He chose a different approach, and today the court found his approach unlawful."
Wiener, for his part, immediately pledged to try again:
"Now that the Court has made clear that state officers must be included, I am immediately introducing new legislation to include state officers. We will unmask these thugs and hold them accountable. Full stop."
So the governor's team says the senator refused their fixes. The senator says he'll write a new version that does what the governor apparently wanted all along. The only people who came out of this with a clear message were the ones who sued to stop it.
Attorney General Pam Bondi framed the ruling as part of a broader pattern of courtroom success:
"Following our arguments, a district court in California BLOCKED the enforcement of a law that would have banned federal agents from wearing masks to protect their identities."
"These federal agents are harassed, doxxed, obstructed, and attacked on a regular basis just for doing their jobs. We have no tolerance for it."
"We will continue fighting and winning in court for President Trump's law-and-order agenda."
The Trump administration sued to block the mask ban back in November, arguing California lacked the authority to regulate federal agents. The Department of Homeland Security urged authorities to ignore the law entirely. The court's ruling vindicated that position.
There's a reason ICE agents wear face coverings during operations. They work in hostile environments where activists film them, post their faces online, and target them for harassment. Bondi's statement pointed to a reality that California's leadership would prefer to ignore: the people enforcing immigration law face real threats from the people who oppose it.
This was never really about masks. It was about obstruction — finding any procedural lever to make federal immigration enforcement harder, slower, and more dangerous for the agents carrying it out. If you can force agents to show their faces, you give the doxxing machine fresh ammunition. If you can tie up enforcement operations in state-level compliance requirements, you create friction where the federal government is supposed to operate freely.
Newsom tipped his hand on Tuesday when he suggested the ruling should inspire a federal mask ban:
"Based on the court's decision, I think we should move in the opposite direction. We should have a federal mask ban."
"I don't believe federal agents should be running roughshod over the Constitution, putting communities that are already on edge in more terror and more distress by having masks on. No other law enforcement agency operates like this."
The governor's office added:
"No badge and no name mean no accountability."
But the court upheld the identification requirement. Federal agents will be required to visibly display identification. That's the accountability mechanism — and it survived. The mask ban was something else entirely, and the court saw through it.
Wiener says he'll reintroduce the legislation with state officers included. Whether Newsom signs a version that applies to his own state police remains an open question — and a revealing one. It's easy to demand transparency from federal agents enforcing laws you don't like. It's harder when the same standard applies to officers under your command.
California's Democratic leadership wanted to build a legal wall around illegal immigrants. Instead, they built a law so poorly constructed that it collapsed under the weight of its own hypocrisy. The court didn't need to reach the federal supremacy question. The equal protection problem was enough.
When your law fails because you carved out an exception for your own side, the court isn't handing your opponents a win. You handed it to them yourself.
Hillary and Bill Clinton are now objecting to the videotaping of their private depositions before the House Oversight Committee — depositions they already agreed to sit for. The dispute threatens to derail scheduled appearances on Feb. 26 and Feb. 27 in connection with the committee's probe into Jeffrey Epstein.
The agreement for those depositions halted the House from moving forward with a floor vote to hold the Clintons in criminal contempt of Congress. That deal, reached after a months-long back-and-forth between Clinton lawyers and the committee, appeared to settle the matter. Now the Clintons want to rewrite the terms.
Bill Clinton, the 42nd president, posted a statement Friday framing the entire process as a partisan setup:
"Chairman Comer says he wants cameras, but only behind closed doors. It serves only partisan interests. This is not fact-finding, it's pure politics."
He followed that with a sharper line:
"I will not sit idly as they use me as a prop in a closed-door kangaroo court."
The rhetoric is unmistakable. A former president who agreed to appear under oath is now publicly campaigning against the conditions of that appearance — conditions his own legal team negotiated.
Oversight Committee Chair James Comer, the Kentucky Republican, responded over the weekend with considerably less theatrics and considerably more documentation, Punchbowl News reported. His committee released correspondence with the Clintons' legal team showing that video guidelines were discussed throughout the negotiation process. Recording depositions, Comer noted, is common practice for House proceedings.
"The Clintons are now pushing a false narrative to play victim."
Comer also made clear that the Clintons' preferred alternative — public hearings — isn't off the table. It's just not a substitute for the depositions they already committed to:
"The Clintons can have their hearing after completing the depositions they agreed to."
That distinction matters. A deposition is a fact-finding tool — questions under oath, follow-ups, and detailed examination. A public hearing is a performance stage. The Clintons aren't asking for more transparency. They're asking for a format where cameras serve their interests, where opening statements and five-minute rounds replace sustained questioning.
Anyone who's watched a congressional hearing knows the difference. Depositions produce answers. Hearings produce clips.
While the Clintons wage a media campaign against sitting for questions, Ghislaine Maxwell was scheduled to be deposed virtually by the Oversight Committee today. According to Rep. Ro Khanna, a California Democrat, Maxwell's lawyers have indicated she intends to invoke her Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.
That backdrop makes the Clinton maneuvering all the more striking. Maxwell, according to a New York Times report published Sunday, was integral in setting up the Clinton Global Initiative, including helping set up funding for it. The committee is probing the Clintons' relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. Maxwell — Epstein's most notorious associate — helped build the infrastructure of one of the Clintons' signature philanthropic ventures.
And she's pleading the Fifth.
The Clintons, for their part, aren't invoking any constitutional right. They're not claiming privilege. They're complaining about cameras — in depositions they agreed to, under terms their lawyers helped shape, to avoid being held in criminal contempt of Congress.
The Clinton playbook here is vintage. Agree to cooperate when the legal pressure peaks. Then, once the contempt threat recedes, contest the terms. Shift the argument from substance to process. Call it partisan. Call it a kangaroo court. Make the investigation the story instead of what the investigation might uncover.
It worked for decades in Washington. The question is whether it works now, with a committee that holds the contempt card and has already shown willingness to play it.
Consider the sequence: the Clintons' lawyers negotiated for months. They reached a deal. The deal prevented a criminal contempt vote. Video was discussed throughout those negotiations, per the committee's own correspondence. And now — with the deposition days away — Bill Clinton takes to social media to recast the entire arrangement as an ambush.
If the videotaping terms were unacceptable, the time to reject them was during the months of negotiation, not two weeks before the deposition date. The timing suggests this isn't a procedural objection. It's a pressure campaign designed to either extract new concessions or manufacture a pretext for non-compliance.
The Feb. 26 and Feb. 27 dates remain on the calendar. If the Clintons refuse to appear under the agreed-upon terms, the contempt question resurfaces — this time with even less sympathy for the subjects, who struck a deal and then tried to wriggle out of it.
Meanwhile, Maxwell invokes the Fifth from behind a screen, and a New York Times report draws a line between her and the financial scaffolding of the Clinton Global Initiative. The committee's probe is pulling threads that the Clintons clearly prefer stay untugged.
Bill Clinton says he won't be a "prop." But a man who voluntarily agreed to testify under oath, then launched a public campaign to avoid the format he negotiated, isn't fighting for principle. He's fighting for control of the frame.
The cameras, it turns out, are only a problem when you can't pick the angle.
A Hong Kong court sentenced 78-year-old media entrepreneur Jimmy Lai to 20 years in prison Monday under Beijing's national security law, drawing immediate condemnation from Secretary of State Marco Rubio, who called the verdict "unjust and tragic" and urged Chinese authorities to grant Lai humanitarian parole.
Lai — the founder of Apple Daily, once Hong Kong's most prominent pro-democracy newspaper — was convicted on two counts of conspiracy to collude with foreign forces and one count of conspiracy to publish seditious materials. Judges labeled him the "mastermind" of alleged plots to use his media platform and international network to lobby foreign governments for sanctions against China and Hong Kong.
His crime, in plain terms: running a newspaper that criticized Beijing.
Rubio's statement, reported by Fox News, left no ambiguity about how Washington views the conviction:
"The conviction shows the world that Beijing will go to extraordinary lengths to silence those who advocate fundamental freedoms in Hong Kong."
Prosecutors cited hundreds of Apple Daily articles as evidence against Lai. Let that register — a government cataloging journalism as proof of criminal conspiracy. The newspaper Lai founded in 1995 became, under Beijing's 2020 national security law, Exhibit A in a case designed not merely to punish one man but to demonstrate what happens to anyone who dissents.
Lai had already spent more than five years behind bars, serving a separate sentence for fraud and for organizing unauthorized assemblies during Hong Kong's anti-CCP protests. The 20-year addition isn't a sentence. For a 78-year-old man, it's a burial order with extra paperwork.
His son Sebastian Lai put it bluntly:
"Twenty years, he's 78 years old now. This is essentially a life sentence — or more like a death sentence, given the conditions he's being kept in."
Sebastian told Fox on Monday that his father has lost significant weight and suffers from heart issues and diabetes. He said the family is "incredibly worried about his life."
What makes Lai's case remarkable — and what separates it from the stories of countless other political prisoners around the world — is that he had every opportunity to leave. Lai is a billionaire. He had the means, the connections, and the warning signs. Beijing's national security law swept through Hong Kong in 2020 after months of massive pro-democracy protests, reshaping the city's legal landscape. Lai knew what was coming.
He stayed anyway.
Sebastian Lai described his father as "a man of deep faith" who believes "no matter how hard the conditions he was under, that he still did the right thing." That's not political theater. That's conviction of the kind that embarrasses regimes built on coercion, which is precisely why Beijing wants him locked away until he dies.
President Trump raised Lai's case directly with Chinese leader Xi Jinping in December 2025. His comments at the time were characteristically direct:
"I spoke to President Xi about it, and I asked to consider his release. He's not well, he's an older man, and he's not well, so I did put that request out. We'll see what happens."
Trump is expected to travel to Beijing in April amid broader negotiations with China. Lai's imprisonment now sits squarely within the wider framework of U.S.-China relations — trade, Taiwan, military posture, and the question of whether Beijing faces any real cost for crushing internal dissent.
Rubio's public call for humanitarian parole adds diplomatic weight. It signals that Lai's case isn't a side issue to be quietly shelved during trade talks — it's on the table.
The national security law Beijing imposed on Hong Kong in 2020 was sold as a stabilizing measure. In practice, it has become the instrument through which a once-vibrant city was brought to heel. The prosecution of Jimmy Lai — a publisher, not a general — tells you everything about the kind of "stability" Beijing values. It's the stability of silence.
Prosecutors argued Lai and unnamed co-defendants used his media platform to lobby for sanctions and "other hostile actions" by foreign governments. The colonial-era Crimes Ordinance was dusted off and applied alongside the national security regime to convict him of publishing seditious materials. A law written by the British Empire, repurposed by the Chinese Communist Party, to jail a man for printing newspapers.
Sebastian Lai argued that Beijing's broken "one country, two systems" promise should serve as a warning for Taiwan. He has a point. Whatever guarantees Beijing extends to its neighbors, Hong Kong is the proof of concept — and the proof is a 78-year-old man sentenced to die in prison for the crime of publishing.
Jimmy Lai built Apple Daily into a media force that gave Hong Kong's people a voice Beijing could not tolerate. He could have taken his fortune and left. He chose the newspaper, the city, and the principle over his own freedom.
Twenty years. Hundreds of articles entered as evidence. A courtroom that called journalism a conspiracy.
Beijing delivered its verdict on Jimmy Lai. In doing so, it delivered a verdict on itself.
A federal judge in Manhattan handed down a temporary ruling Friday unfreezing funds the Trump administration had withheld from the $16 billion Gateway rail tunnel project connecting New York and New Jersey — a decision that came just hours after both states warned construction would grind to a halt without the money.
U.S. District Judge Jeannette Vargas found that New York and New Jersey were likely to succeed on their claims that the administration's directive freezing the funds was arbitrary and violated legal procedures for making policy changes. The ruling covers $205 million in reimbursements withheld since October 1.
The decision injects new uncertainty into a dispute that has become a magnet for Democratic grandstanding — and raises real questions about how infrastructure dollars get tangled in politics regardless of which party is doing the tangling.
The Gateway Project is meant to replace the existing Hudson Tunnel, a piece of infrastructure that carries more than 200,000 travelers and 425 trains daily. Hurricane Sandy heavily damaged the tunnel in 2012, and the project has limped through planning and funding phases ever since.
Under the Biden administration, the project was allocated roughly $15 billion in federal support — a staggering commitment that deserves its own scrutiny, according to CNBC. About $2 billion has been spent so far. The Gateway Development Commission warned that 1,000 construction workers would be idled by the suspension of funds.
The Department of Transportation said it froze the money pending a review of the project's compliance with new prohibitions against race- and sex-based considerations in contracting decisions. Gateway says it made changes and conducted a review to ensure compliance with those regulations. It has not heard back from the Department of Transportation.
That silence is worth noting. If the administration's stated reason for the freeze is a compliance review, then the review should actually proceed. Gateway claims it responded to the concerns. Whether that response was adequate is a legitimate question — but leaving it unanswered while funds sit frozen gives Democrats exactly the ammunition they want.
New York and New Jersey filed a lawsuit on January 3, describing the fund freeze as a "brazen act of political retribution" against their Democratic leaders. That's a characterization, not a fact — and the distinction matters. The states chose the most inflammatory framing available and built their legal case around it.
New Jersey Acting Attorney General Jennifer Davenport wasted no time after the ruling:
"The Trump Administration must drop this campaign of political retribution immediately and must allow work on this vital infrastructure project to continue."
Senator Cory Booker held a press conference near the project site on Friday and offered his own theory about why funds were withheld — Trump "seems to want to put his name on everything."
New York Senator Kirsten Gillibrand went further:
"These naming rights aren't tradable as part of any negotiations, and neither is the dignity of New Yorkers ... The president continues to put his own narcissism over the good-paying union jobs this project provides and the extraordinary economic impact the Gateway tunnel will bring."
This is the part where it helps to separate what's verified from what's speculated. Trump has reportedly demanded that Washington Dulles Airport and New York's Penn Station be renamed for him in exchange for unfreezing the funds. Trump told reporters Friday he had not proposed renaming either one — and said it was actually Schumer who proposed renaming Penn Station, with "numerous people" suggesting the Dulles name change. Schumer called that claim an "absolute lie" on social media. A source familiar with the matter told Reuters that Schumer had told the White House he didn't even have the power to rename either facility.
The he-said-he-said is unresolved. What is clear: Democrats are using the ambiguity to turn an infrastructure funding dispute into a personality referendum. That's a play they know well.
Lost in the noise is a straightforward policy question: Should $15 billion in federal money flow to a project in two deep-blue states with minimal accountability review?
The Biden administration committed an extraordinary sum to this project. That commitment was made during a period of historic federal spending, much of it rushed through with minimal oversight. A compliance review — the stated reason for the freeze — is not inherently unreasonable. Federal dollars attached to DEI-related contracting requirements deserve examination, particularly when the current administration has made eliminating such requirements a policy priority.
The problem is execution. If the Department of Transportation initiates a compliance review and then goes silent after the project authority responds, the freeze starts to look less like due diligence and more like bureaucratic limbo. That's the kind of thing that loses in court, as it did Friday.
Judge Vargas's ruling is temporary, not final. But the trajectory matters. Agencies that freeze funds need to articulate clear standards, process responses in good faith, and move decisively. Ambiguity is a gift to your opponents.
Whether or not anyone proposed renaming Penn Station or Dulles, the entire naming subplot has become a distraction that Democrats are only too happy to exploit. Every minute spent debating whose name goes on a building is a minute not spent on the substantive questions:
These are the questions that serve taxpayers. The naming debate serves cable news.
The ruling is temporary, meaning the legal battle is far from over. But the practical effect is immediate — funds flow again, and construction can resume. The administration did not comment on the decision.
For conservatives, the Gateway saga is a useful case study in how not to lose a winnable fight. The underlying instinct — reviewing massive federal expenditures for compliance with current law — is sound. The execution created a vacuum that Democrats filled with press conferences, lawsuits, and accusations of retribution. A federal judge agreed, at least provisionally.
Two hundred thousand daily commuters depend on infrastructure that was damaged over a decade ago. That's a real problem with real consequences for working people. The strongest conservative position isn't to deny the need — it's to demand that the money is spent lawfully, efficiently, and without the DEI strings that the previous administration attached to seemingly everything it touched.
That argument wins on the merits. It just has to actually be made.
An NYPD narcotics sergeant has been convicted of second-degree manslaughter after he hurled a cooler filled with drinks at a fleeing drug suspect, killing the man when he crashed his motorized scooter and slammed into a tree. Sgt. Erik Duran, 38, now faces up to 15 years in prison.
Judge Guy Mitchell delivered the verdict on Friday in Bronx criminal court following a bench trial — no jury, just a judge weighing the facts alone. The conviction makes Duran the first NYPD officer in years to be tried for killing someone while on duty. He has already been dismissed from the department.
Sentencing is scheduled for March 19.
On August 23, 2023, authorities say 30-year-old Eric Duprey sold drugs to an undercover officer in the Bronx and then fled the scene on a motorized scooter. Duran, part of the narcotics unit conducting the operation, grabbed a nearby red cooler packed with ice, water, and sodas, and threw it at Duprey as he rode away.
Duprey — who was not wearing a helmet — lost control of the scooter, crashed into a tree, landed on the pavement, and slid beneath a parked car. Prosecutors said he sustained fatal head injuries and died almost instantaneously.
Security footage captured Duran grabbing and hurling the cooler.
Duran testified in his own defense this week, telling the court he acted in a split-second to protect himself and fellow officers from the oncoming scooter:
"He was gonna crash into us. I didn't have time. All I had time for was to try again to stop or to try to get him to change directions. That's all I had the time to think of."
He also said he immediately tried to render aid after seeing the extent of Duprey's injuries. The judge wasn't persuaded. Mitchell convicted Duran of second-degree manslaughter while dismissing the assault charge, finding that prosecutors had failed to show Duran intended to hurt Duprey. He did not deliver a verdict on the lesser criminally negligent homicide charge, having already found Duran guilty on the more serious count, as NY 1 reports.
Mitchell's statement from the bench was pointed:
"The fact that the defendant is a police officer has no bearing. He's a person and will be treated as any other defendant."
On its face, this sounds like equal justice. In practice, it strips away the entire context of why Duran was on that street in the first place — executing a narcotics operation against a man who had just sold drugs to an undercover officer and was actively fleeing. Duran didn't wander into a confrontation. He was doing the job the city asked him to do.
That doesn't automatically excuse the cooler throw. But to say the badge "has no bearing" is to pretend that policing doesn't involve split-second decisions in chaotic, dangerous environments that civilians never face. A construction worker who throws a cooler in a parking lot dispute and a narcotics officer trying to stop a fleeing suspect are not in the same situation, no matter how badly the court wants to flatten the distinction.
The Sergeants Benevolent Association called the conviction a "miscarriage of justice" and said it still believes Duran was innocent. In a statement, the union laid out what many officers across the city are likely thinking:
"The verdict rendered by Judge Mitchell is clearly against the weight of the credible evidence. Verdicts such as this send a terrible message to hard-working cops: should you use force to defend yourself, your fellow police officers or the citizens of the City, no matter how justified your actions, you risk criminal charges and conviction."
That message will land whether city leaders want it to or not. Officers already working in a department demoralized by years of anti-police rhetoric, progressive prosecution, and revolving-door criminal justice now watch a colleague face 15 years for a decision made in seconds during an active narcotics bust. The calculus for every cop in New York just shifted — not toward better policing, but toward less policing. Toward hesitation. Toward doing nothing and letting the suspect ride away.
That's the incentive structure this conviction creates, regardless of whether it was legally sound.
The case was prosecuted by the office of State Attorney General Letitia James, who stated after the verdict:
"Though it cannot return Eric to his loved ones, today's decision gives justice to his memory."
James has built her career on high-profile prosecutions with political resonance. Her office taking the lead here — rather than the local district attorney — is itself a statement about the kind of cases Albany wants to pursue. Prosecuting an NYPD officer for a death that occurred during a drug bust against a suspect who was actively fleeing fits neatly into a progressive framework where police force is treated as inherently suspect and criminal suspects are treated as inherently sympathetic.
Eric Duprey's death is a tragedy. A 30-year-old man is dead. His wife, Orlyanis Velez, spoke outside the courthouse:
"I was waiting for justice just like everybody, but when the moment happens, you can't believe it's happening. It's been a lot of time. These people been killing citizens, been killing everybody. They don't give no reason."
Her grief is real. But the broader narrative her words were woven into — that police officers are systematically "killing citizens" without reason — is the same narrative that has driven anti-police policy in New York for years. Duprey was not stopped at random. He was not an innocent bystander. He had, according to authorities, just completed a drug sale to an undercover officer and was fleeing a narcotics operation.
None of that means he deserved to die. But the refusal to acknowledge even the basic circumstances of the encounter — a drug deal, a flight from law enforcement, a split-second response — tells you everything about how this case will be used politically.
The NYPD confirmed Duran's dismissal in a statement citing New York State Public Officers Law:
"Pursuant to New York State Public Officers Law, a public officer who is convicted of a felony automatically ceases to hold that position."
Automatic. No review, no appeal within the department. A felony conviction and the career is over by operation of law. Duran's attorney and police union representatives had not responded to requests for comment on potential appeals at the time of reporting.
Duran faces sentencing on March 19, where a judge will decide how many of those 15 possible years he'll serve. The decision will be watched closely — not just by Duran's family, but by every officer in the NYPD, weighing whether the risks of proactive policing are still worth taking.
New York asked its officers to get drugs off the street. One of them did, and now he's a felon. The next officer won't throw a cooler. He also won't chase the suspect. He'll stand there, watch the scooter disappear, and file a report that nobody reads.
That's the city Letitia James is building.
Sen. Marsha Blackburn is demanding Chief Justice John Roberts open an investigation into Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson after the Supreme Court justice attended the 68th Grammy Awards in Los Angeles—an event where attendees wore "ICE Out" lapel pins, and winners declared "No one is illegal on stolen land" and "F— ICE" from the stage.
Fox News reported that Blackburn, a Tennessee Republican who sits on the Senate Judiciary Committee, sent a letter to Roberts urging the chief justice to determine whether Jackson's attendance violated the Supreme Court's Code of Conduct and whether her participation would require recusal from cases coming before the Court.
The timing is not incidental. The Supreme Court is slated to take on cases revolving around the Trump administration's agenda, including birthright citizenship and immigration—precisely the issues that turned the January 29 ceremony into a political rally.
Jackson attended the 2026 Recording Academy Honors presented by The Black Music Collective, where she had been nominated for narrating the audiobook version of her memoir, "Lovely One." What she walked into—or chose to stay for—went well beyond a celebration of musical achievement.
Attendees pinned "ICE Out" buttons to their lapels. Winners used their platform to attack U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Critics said Jackson clapped as various speakers criticized ICE. The rhetoric was not subtle. It was not coded. It was profane, direct, and aimed squarely at the federal government's enforcement of immigration law.
A sitting Supreme Court justice sat in that audience. That fact alone deserves scrutiny. That the Court will soon adjudicate immigration cases involving the very agency being denounced makes it something more.
Blackburn's letter does not mince words. She draws a clear line between attendance and implication, arguing that Jackson's presence at an overtly political event raises legitimate questions about judicial impartiality.
"While it is by no means unheard of or unusual for a Supreme Court justice to attend a public function, very rarely—if ever—have justices of our nation's highest Court been present at an event at which attendees have amplified such far-left rhetoric."
That distinction matters. No one argues that justices should be confined to their chambers. They attend galas, give speeches, and appear at universities. But there is a difference between attending a cultural event and sitting through what amounted to a political demonstration against a federal law enforcement agency—one whose work will land on your desk in a matter of months.
Blackburn pressed the point further, calling on Roberts to act:
"To that end, in the interest of a fair-minded, impartial, and independent federal judiciary, I urge you to initiate an investigation into Justice Jackson's attendance at this event and if her participation in any way would require recusal from matters that will come before the Court."
The senator is not asking for Jackson's removal. She is asking whether a justice who attended—and by some accounts applauded—an event dripping with hostility toward ICE can credibly sit in judgment on cases involving that same agency. It is a reasonable question. The Code of Conduct exists precisely for moments like this.
For years, Democrats and their media allies mounted sustained campaigns against Justices Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito. Sens. Dick Durbin and Sheldon Whitehouse wrote to Roberts demanding that Alito recuse himself from cases related to the 2020 election and the January 6, 2021, Capitol riot. The basis? Alito's wife had put up a Revolutionary War-era flag at their home.
A flag. Hung by a spouse. At a private residence.
That was enough for Democrats to demand recusal, launch news cycles, and question the legitimacy of the Court itself. The apparatus of outrage cranked to full volume over fabric on a pole.
Now a liberal justice personally attends a public awards show where performers and winners openly cursed a federal agency, where the crowd wore protest pins, and where the political messaging was unmistakable—and the question is whether anyone will apply the same standard.
Blackburn drew the comparison explicitly:
"Unlike these meritless claims against Justice Alito and Justice Thomas, there are serious questions regarding Justice Jackson's participation in such a brazenly political, anti-law enforcement event and her ability to remain an impartial member of the Supreme Court."
The left built this framework. They insisted that even the faintest suggestion of political sympathy—a flag, a friendship, a vacation—disqualified conservative justices from hearing cases. They demanded investigations, recusals, and resignations on evidence that would not survive a hallway conversation. They wrote the rules of engagement.
The question now is whether those rules apply to everyone or only to justices appointed by Republican presidents.
This is not an abstract debate about judicial etiquette. The Supreme Court's upcoming docket includes cases directly tied to the Trump administration's immigration enforcement—including birthright citizenship. These are cases where ICE's authority, its operations, and its legal mandate will be central questions.
Jackson did not attend a jazz concert that happened to get political. She attended an event where opposition to immigration enforcement was the dominant cultural message of the evening. If the standard Democrats established means anything—if proximity to political expression creates an appearance of bias—then Jackson's attendance is a textbook case for recusal review.
The Court adopted its formal Code of Conduct relatively recently, after years of Democratic pressure. It would be deeply ironic if the first real test of that code involved a Democratic-appointed justice—and the institution simply looked away.
As of now, neither the Supreme Court nor Blackburn's office has publicly responded to press inquiries about the letter. Jackson herself has offered no public comment on the controversy.
That silence is its own kind of statement. When Thomas and Alito faced similar—and far thinner—allegations, the demand from the left was immediate transparency, public explanation, and institutional action. Opinion pages lit up. Cable news ran chyrons. Senators held press conferences.
The Grammy Awards aired on a Sunday. Jackson was there. The anti-ICE rhetoric was loud, public, and profane. And the response from the usual guardians of judicial ethics has been conspicuously quiet.
Roberts now holds Blackburn's letter. Whether he acts on it will signal something important about the Court's willingness to apply its own standards evenly. The chief justice has historically guarded the institution's independence from political pressure on both sides. This is a moment where that independence gets tested—not by an outside attack, but by the conduct of one of his own colleagues.
Blackburn has done what the Senate Judiciary Committee exists to do: exercise oversight and demand accountability from the judiciary. She has not called for impeachment. She has not questioned Jackson's fitness for the bench. She has asked, plainly, whether sitting through a political event hostile to federal law enforcement creates a conflict of interest in pending cases. The letter is measured. The question is direct.
The left spent years insisting that the appearance of impartiality matters as much as impartiality itself. They said the standard must be rigorous. They said the Court's legitimacy depended on it. They were right about that much.
Now we find out if they meant it.
Heads are rolling across Europe. New documents released by the Department of Justice reveal that a string of European officials maintained ties to Jeffrey Epstein—not before his crimes came to light, but after.
The Hill reported that Peter Mandelson, the former U.K. ambassador to the U.S., resigned from the House of Lords on Tuesday. Norway's ambassador to Jordan and Iraq, Mona Juul, has been sidelined from her post. Slovakia's Miroslav Lajčák, a former president of the United Nations General Assembly and adviser to Prime Minister Robert Fico, stepped down after text messages with Epstein surfaced.
Three countries. Three officials. One convicted sex offender they all chose to keep in their orbit.
Epstein pleaded guilty in 2008 to procuring a child for prostitution and soliciting a prostitute. That was supposed to be the end of polite society's relationship with the man. Instead, the DOJ files paint a picture of European elites who treated a child sex conviction as a minor inconvenience—something to navigate around, not a reason to sever contact.
The Mandelson revelations are the most politically explosive, and they trace back years. In 2003, Mandelson wrote Epstein a 10-page note calling the financier his "best pal." By December 2009—more than a year after Epstein's guilty plea—Mandelson was still in his inbox.
That month, Epstein emailed Mandelson, then the first secretary of state, about whether JPMorgan Chase CEO Jamie Dimon should call Alistair Darling, the U.K.'s chancellor of the exchequer and head of the British treasury, to offer more money for a small business fund in exchange for a tax reduction during the global financial crisis. Mandelson's reply was two words and a conjunction:
"Yes and mildly threaten."
A sitting first secretary of state, corresponding with a convicted child sex offender about leveraging a major bank CEO to influence the British treasury. The casual tone is almost worse than the substance. This wasn't a man maintaining an awkward acquaintance—it was a working relationship.
Prime Minister Keir Starmer sacked Mandelson last September over his connection to Epstein. On Thursday, speaking in East Sussex, Starmer delivered a public apology:
"I am sorry. Sorry for what was done to you, sorry that so many people with power failed you. Sorry for having believed Mandelson's lies and appointed him, and sorry that even now you're forced to watch this story unfold in public once again."
Starmer acknowledged that Mandelson had misled him directly, saying Mandelson "portrayed Epstein as someone he barely knew." A 10-page letter to your "best pal" is a strange way to barely know someone.
The real question Starmer's apology raises is the one he'd rather not answer: what due diligence was performed before appointing Mandelson as ambassador to the United States in the first place? Epstein's conviction was public record. Mandelson's social connections to the financier had been the subject of media scrutiny for years. Starmer appointed him anyway—and now wants credit for firing him after documents forced his hand.
Mona Juul, Norway's ambassador to Jordan and Iraq, has been sidelined while the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs reviews her relationship with Epstein. Juul's defense rests on her husband, Terje Rød-Larsen, whose own relationship with Epstein she describes as the origin of any contact.
"It is important for me to clarify that the contact I have had with Epstein has originated in my spouse's relationship with him. I have had no independent social or professional relationship with Epstein, including not mediating or connecting contacts to Epstein."
She then offered a partial concession:
"However, in retrospect, I see that I should have been much more careful. This also applies to a short private visit in 2011, while I was on leave from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which I now acknowledge that I should have handled differently."
A "short private visit" in 2011, three years after Epstein's conviction. The framing is meticulous. She was "on leave." The visit was "short." She had no "independent" relationship. Every word calibrated to create maximum distance from a man she nonetheless chose to visit.
The DOJ documents also revealed that in October 2014, Camilla Reksten-Monsen sent Epstein an invitation to a dinner party on behalf of Juul and Rød-Larsen, intended for filmmaker Woody Allen and his wife Soon-Yi Previn. Six years after the conviction, the couple was still routing social invitations through Epstein. That is not the behavior of people on the periphery of someone's life.
Then there is Miroslav Lajčák. The former president of the UN General Assembly exchanged text messages with Epstein in October 2018. They are difficult to read as anything other than what they appear to be.
"Don't you miss me there?"
"Why don't you invite me for these games?"
"I would take the 'MI' girl."
Epstein's reply:
"Who wouldn't. You can have them both, I am not possessive. And their sisters."
Lajčák resigned. There is nothing to analyze here that the messages themselves don't already make plain. A senior international official, texting a convicted sex offender about women as though browsing a catalog. Epstein sent Lajčák a photo in the same exchange—the contents of which are not viewable in the released documents.
The Epstein story has always been about two things: what he did, and who let him keep doing it. The DOJ releases confirm what has been obvious for years—Epstein's network of elite enablers didn't scatter after his 2008 conviction. They adapted. They communicated more carefully. They used intermediaries and euphemisms. But they stayed.
This is the defining feature of institutional corruption at the highest levels. It is not that powerful people didn't know. It is that knowing didn't matter. A guilty plea for procuring a child for prostitution was, for this class of people, a reputational speed bump. Mandelson kept emailing. Juul kept visiting. Lajčák kept texting. The conviction changed nothing about how they treated the man—only how carefully they documented it.
Resignations are not accountability. Mandelson leaving the House of Lords, Lajčák stepping down from his advisory role, Juul being "sidelined" pending review—these are political consequences, not legal ones. None of these individuals has been accused of wrongdoing in connection with Epstein. The system is working exactly as designed: absorb the shock, sacrifice the most exposed figures, and move on before anyone asks harder questions about the broader network.
Starmer's apology was polished and contrite. It was also reactive. He believed Mandelson's misrepresentations, appointed him to one of the most important diplomatic posts in British government, and only reversed course when the documentary evidence became undeniable. The apology is directed at the people Epstein harmed. It should also be directed at the British public, who were asked to trust a government that put a man with these associations one handshake from the Oval Office.
The DOJ files have now reached across the Atlantic and toppled officials in three countries. The documents keep coming. The names keep surfacing. And the question that hangs over all of it remains the same one it has always been: how many more are there?
Europe's political class spent years assuring everyone that Epstein was someone else's problem. The receipts say otherwise.
Big Tech has flexed its muscle again, this time silencing a small Oregon theater over a few clever jabs on a movie marquee.
Amazon MGM Studios requested that The Lake Theater and Cafe in Lake Oswego, a suburb near Portland, cease screenings of the documentary Melania due to promotional messages on the theater’s marquee..
The theater, known for its quirky advertising, complied by canceling all showings and updating its signage. The incident, first reported by The Oregonian and later covered by The Daily Beast, has drawn attention to the controversial film, which has performed strongly nationwide despite harsh reviews from critics.
At the heart of the issue are the marquee messages posted by The Lake Theater and Cafe, including quips like “Does Melania wear Prada? Find out Friday.” These lighthearted jabs, meant to draw crowds, instead drew the ire of Amazon, which promptly called for the film to be pulled, according to the Hollywood Reporter.
The theater’s manager, Jordan Perry, confirmed that a studio representative contacted their booker with the demand to stop screenings. After complying, the theater updated its marquee to read, “Amazon called. Our marquee made them mad.”
This isn’t just a story of Big Tech censorship; it’s also a snapshot of how divided communities have become over anything tied to prominent conservative figures.
Even before Amazon’s intervention, the theater faced significant local backlash, with management receiving numerous emails, voicemails, and negative online reviews questioning their decision to screen Melania. Many of these complaints were removed by Google and Yelp, but the pressure was palpable for the small cinema.
On Instagram, the theater lamented the early end to the film’s run, stating, “Now that it’s prematurely over, the plug pulled on us not from public outcry (always listening, thank you) but by some corporate executive (fair enough, sorry AMZN, please don’t cancel my Prime).” This tongue-in-cheek apology highlights the absurdity of a corporate giant stomping on a local business over a few words on a sign.
Amazon, predictably, offered no immediate comment on their heavy-handed move, leaving observers to wonder if they’ll ever justify this overreaction. Meanwhile, Melania has been a surprising hit nationally, touted as the strongest documentary performance in a decade, even as critics savage it. Clearly, audiences are hungry for content that challenges the mainstream narrative, whether Big Tech likes it or not.
Perry himself booked the film partly as a playful jab at the left-leaning area, thinking it would be amusing to screen such a polarizing title in an “anti-establishment” venue. He also noted it was a slow period for new releases, making the documentary a logical choice. But humor, it seems, is a risky business in today’s culture.
The Lake Theater sold just $196 in tickets over a single weekend of showings, a modest sum that underscores the David-versus-Goliath nature of this clash. Yet, the theater’s final marquee message—“Show your support at Whole Foods instead”—dripped with sarcasm aimed at Amazon’s sprawling empire. It’s a reminder that even small players can throw a punch, even if they’re forced to back down.
What’s truly galling here is how quickly humor gets crushed under the boot of corporate sensitivity. If a tiny theater can’t poke fun at a film title without fear of retribution, then we’ve lost something fundamental about free expression. This isn’t about left or right; it’s about the right to laugh without permission.
Look at the broader picture: Melania is a lightning rod because it dares to humanize a figure the cultural elite love to vilify. Amazon’s reaction isn’t just about a marquee; it’s about controlling the narrative around a woman who represents resilience against relentless media scorn. Their silence speaks volumes—they’d rather shut down discussion than engage with it.
As for what’s next, expect more of this cultural tug-of-war where corporate giants play morality police over the smallest perceived slights. The Lake Theater’s story might fade, but the chilling effect on independent voices won’t. If anything, this should rally those who value unfiltered discourse to support local businesses brave enough to push back, even if only with a witty sign.