Karla Faye Tucker killed two people with a pickaxe in 1983, told police the act sexually aroused her, then spent fourteen years on death row reinventing herself as a born-again Christian. A retired FBI agent says the confession that haunted the public never stopped haunting investigators either.
Candice DeLong, a retired FBI agent, criminal profiler, and host of the true-crime podcast "Killer Psyche," recently explored Tucker's case in what she called "The Death Row Convert," examining how Tucker's jailhouse conversion to Christianity divided the nation. In comments to Fox News Digital and on her podcast, DeLong laid out a case study in how childhood destruction, drug abuse, and a single grotesque admission can chart the course from crime to execution chamber.
According to the New York Post, Tucker, a Houston, Texas, native, was convicted of her role in the 1983 murders of Jerry Lynn Dean, 27, and Deborah Thornton, 32. Tucker and her then-boyfriend, Daniel Ryan Garrett, broke into Dean's apartment intending to steal motorcycle parts. Dean had reportedly angered Tucker over a dispute involving a motorcycle. Thornton, who had met Dean earlier that evening, was also present.
Both were killed. Tucker later admitted to participating in both killings.
Then came the detail that would follow her to the death chamber. Tucker told police she experienced sexual arousal during the attack, statements she later appeared to distance herself from. DeLong told Fox News Digital that this admission destroyed any hope Tucker might have had:
"Karla was doomed from the beginning, once people found out what she did. And the worst thing she did, and she did not help herself by telling people this, that she had an orgasm when she was killing, while she was stabbing someone."
Tucker's defense attorney argued she was intoxicated during the crime, but she was found guilty of capital murder. Garrett was also sentenced to death but died in prison in 1993 from complications related to hepatitis.
DeLong spent considerable time tracing the roots of Tucker's violence. The picture she drew was grim but deliberate, the kind of case study profilers use to explain, though never excuse, what comes later.
"Karla Faye Tucker had a pretty sad and horrible childhood. Her family broke up, and her mother became a sex worker. Now she's got three young girls at home, teenage girls at home. And the mother's doing drugs. Karla Faye starts using drugs at a very young age."
DeLong pointed to neuroscience research suggesting that drug and alcohol use in undeveloped brains, which scientists say are not fully mature until the mid-20s, can create lasting psychological damage, including a propensity for violence toward others and suicidal behavior.
"There was a lot of neglect. When mom was around, she partied with her daughter. One of the things that we know can happen — drugs, alcohol and marijuana in an undeveloped brain — can create a psychological situation where, when that child or adolescent is an adult, they may have a violent streak, violence toward others and frequently suicidal behavior. We see that as well."
None of this, in DeLong's telling, amounts to an excuse. It amounts to a map. She questioned how any child could emerge intact from the environment Tucker grew up in:
"How was a kid supposed to grow up normal when the mother is buying, providing and sharing her drugs that she gets from money through sex with strangers? How is a kid — a girl, a teenage girl — supposed to deal with that and come out OK on the other side, meaning the other side of childhood?"
Her conclusion was blunt:
"Karla never stood a chance, a chance of having a normal life, in my opinion. She didn't get what she needed, and she got a lot of bad stuff from someone who was supposed to take care of her."
This is the line that true-crime analysis walks constantly, and it is a line that matters in a culture increasingly eager to blur it. Understanding the mechanics of how a killer is made does not obligate society to forgive the killing. A conservative framework recognizes both realities simultaneously: broken homes and absent parents produce damaged people, and damaged people who murder still owe a debt to justice.
The left often treats these origin stories as arguments against accountability. If the system failed her, the reasoning goes, then the system has no standing to punish her. That logic collapses the moment you remember Jerry Lynn Dean and Deborah Thornton, who did not get a second chance at life, regardless of what failed Karla Faye Tucker.
After arriving at the Texas State Penitentiary in 1984, Tucker identified herself as a born-again Christian. In death row interviews, she appeared soft-spoken as she pleaded for mercy. Her case drew significant support for clemency, including from religious leaders and public figures.
DeLong was skeptical:
"She found God, she found Jesus, so the thought among her supporters was 'spare her.' The thing about finding God, though — I don't think so. A lot of prisoners find God and become religious in prison, yes, but not as soon as the handcuffs go on. So it does make me question."
On her podcast, DeLong offered a more nuanced take, acknowledging that prison may have genuinely helped Tucker in ways freedom never could:
"Prison is exactly where she belonged for obvious reasons. Karla needed to be contained, monitored, regimented, and above all, drug-free. Finding God helped her reconstruct her identity and separate her new self from her old murderous self. It helped her find stability after a life filled with instability and chaos."
But DeLong quickly added the counterweight:
"There could be many reasons why Karla found God in prison. Many people do. We come across many killers who make the same claims. But with Karla, she eventually had masses of people across the country rooting for her."
That last observation cuts to something deeper than one case. The American public has a recurring weakness for redemption narratives, especially when the killer is articulate, remorseful, and, frankly, female. Tucker's soft-spoken death row interviews generated a sympathy that a male killer with the same crime and the same confession would almost certainly never have received. The double standard is worth naming.
Tucker was executed in 1998 at age 38, becoming the first woman executed in Texas since the Civil War. DeLong framed the public's reaction to Tucker not as bloodlust but as a rational response to something deeply disturbing:
"It raises the thought of, 'If she could do that once, could she do it again? What if she got out?' I'm not saying she deserved the death penalty or not. It would have been fine with me for her to spend the rest of her life in prison. But we, as members of society, when we are so repulsed by what someone not only did but then brags about it, we just want it gone. We want them gone. We want the memory gone. And how do you do that? The 'Death Chamber.'"
DeLong did not shy away from her own assessment of the risk Tucker posed. Even with the religious conversion, even with the soft-spoken interviews, she believed the threat was real:
"Regarding Karla, there's no reason to believe, based on what she did, that there was any place in society that could be safe from her other than a jail cell or a prison cell. If I had to roll the dice, I'd say if she had not been convicted and was released, or if she escaped, she would've been involved in sex, drugs and violence very quickly."
On her podcast, DeLong delivered perhaps the sharpest summary of all:
"But as I see it, Karla Faye Tucker was everybody's worst nightmare. She was a hedonist who lived a life of drugs, sex, rock 'n' roll and, above all, violence."
"She was a woman who sexually enjoyed killing another person, and she was proud of it. Juries are afraid of people like Karla. They not only want them contained, but they want them gone forever from the face of this Earth and from our collective consciousness."
The Karla Faye Tucker case endures not because of its gore but because of the questions it forces. Can a person be genuinely transformed in prison? Does transformation matter once the crime crosses a certain threshold? And who gets to decide?
Conservatives have long argued that the justice system exists to protect the innocent, not to rehabilitate the guilty at the innocent's expense. Tucker's case is Exhibit A. A woman who confessed to sexual pleasure during a double pickaxe murder managed, through fourteen years of good behavior and religious devotion, to convince a meaningful segment of the public that she deserved mercy. The victims' families got no such campaign.
DeLong's analysis, rooted in decades of profiling killers, reinforces a truth that sentimentality often obscures: understanding why someone became a monster does not make them less of one. Tucker's childhood was a catastrophe. Her crimes were still her own. The justice system weighed both and acted.
Two people went to sleep in a Houston apartment in 1983 and never woke up. Forty-plus years later, we are still talking about their killers' feelings.
Volusia County Sheriff's Office deputies found a convicted child killer kicking back on the Daytona Beach seawall, swigging booze alongside spring breakers, during a routine public nuisance sweep over the weekend. Anthony Grove, 45, was wanted in Ohio for violating his parole after pleading guilty to involuntary manslaughter and endangering the welfare of a child.
He wasn't hiding. He wasn't running. He was sitting on the sand with a whiskey bottle, playing it cool.
Grove now faces Florida charges for failing to register as a convicted felon and two counts of drug possession after deputies allegedly found a THC weed pen in his backpack. He is currently in custody pending extradition back to Ohio.
Deputies initially approached Grove and another man who was drinking on the seawall. What began as a minor public nuisance contact quickly escalated when a background check revealed Grove's outstanding warrant from Ohio, which flagged him as dangerous and possibly armed, as New York Post reports.
Bodycam footage captured the exchange between Volusia County Chief Deputy Brian Henderson and Grove. When Henderson questioned Grove about why he was wanted, Grove apparently tried to soften the story, suggesting his child's death was an accident. Henderson pressed him.
"You made it sound like your kid – it was a car accident?"
It wasn't. In February 2015, Grove threw a coffee mug at his baby's mother and hit the little boy in the head instead, according to a report citing ABC News 5. The child died. Grove pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter and endangering the welfare of a child.
Henderson's response was direct: "Go sit in the car."
Grove, for his part, seemed to understand the moment. "It's over, bro," he told deputies.
Henderson used the arrest to make a broader point about policing philosophy, one that resonates well beyond the Volusia County shoreline.
"This is why we said the little things matter – you enforce the small public nuisance crimes and here we are, we find a guy that's sitting up on the seawall, drinking booze…This is the kind of people we don't need on our beach, we don't need in our community and I'm glad we could get him off the sand."
This is broken-windows policing in action. The idea that enforcing minor infractions catches bigger fish has been mocked and maligned by progressive criminal justice reformers for years. They call it over-policing. They call it harassment. They call it a pretext for targeting marginalized communities.
Then a convicted child killer turns up on a public beach surrounded by college kids, and the only reason anyone noticed was because deputies bothered to enforce open container laws.
Consider what happens in jurisdictions that have adopted the opposite approach. Cities that stopped enforcing quality-of-life offenses didn't become more equitable. They became more dangerous. Public spaces filled with people who had no business being there unchecked: fugitives, parole violators, predators who thrive in environments where nobody asks questions.
Grove's parole agreement required him to obtain a written travel permit before crossing state lines. He didn't bother. Ohio issued a warrant for his arrest on Oct. 29, 2025. And yet there he sat, months later, drinking whiskey on a crowded Florida beach during one of the busiest weeks of the year.
Without that sweep, he stays invisible.
The gap between Grove's Ohio warrant and his Daytona Beach arrest raises an uncomfortable question: how many parole violators with violent histories are floating around the country right now, untracked and unbothered?
The parole system is supposed to function as a leash. A man who killed a child gets released, and the condition of that release is accountability: check in, stay put, get permission before you move. Grove ignored every one of those conditions. The system's response was to issue a warrant and wait.
It took a Florida sheriff's office running a spring break enforcement operation to do what Ohio's parole infrastructure couldn't.
There's a lesson here that goes beyond one arrest. Proactive policing works. It works not because every open container citation leads to a fugitive, but because the posture of enforcement creates an environment where people who are hiding something get found. The alternative, the hands-off, look-the-other-way model championed by reform prosecutors from San Francisco to Philadelphia, creates the opposite. It creates cover.
Somewhere in the details of this story, it's easy to lose the gravity of why Grove was wanted in the first place. A child is dead. A little boy was struck in the head during a domestic assault and never recovered. The man responsible pleaded guilty, served whatever time Ohio deemed sufficient, and then walked away from every obligation that came with his release.
He ended up on a beach, surrounded by young people on vacation, acting as though none of it ever happened. Henderson described Grove's demeanor as taking "it real cool."
The Volusia County Sheriff's Office didn't let him stay cool for long. That matters more than any policy debate about policing philosophy. A dangerous man was found because someone bothered to look.
Valerie Bertinelli wants you to know her breasts are "deformed," and she's decided she'd rather laugh about it than hide from it. Fox News reported that the 65-year-old actress laid bare the physical toll of decades-old breast implants during a conversation with Drew Barrymore, tying it to her new memoir, "Getting Naked."
Four surgeries in 2024. A fever of 104 degrees. An infection so severe that her breast "started to cave in on itself." And still, at least one more procedure to go.
It's a jarring story, told with the kind of self-deprecating honesty that's become rare in a celebrity culture obsessed with curating perfection.
Bertinelli first got breast implants in the late 1980s. She wrote in her memoir that she always hated her naturally small breasts and wanted a modest change, but she ended up with results more dramatic than she intended. For decades, she kept them hidden rather than displayed.
"After I got the implants, I never put them on display. I tried to hide them even, embarrassed that I had done it."
The trouble escalated after Bertinelli suffered a bad fall at some unspecified point before 2024, leading to surgery to remove the old implants and replace them with smaller ones. About one week after that replacement surgery, things went wrong: discoloration, swelling, dizziness, and a dangerous fever.
In an interview with People magazine earlier this month, Bertinelli described the moment her doctor saw the damage:
"The look on my doctor's face when he finally saw me made me think 'Oh s---' I guess I should have come in earlier.' And he took everything out [the implant and the surrounding tissues] and then my breast became infected and started to cave in on itself. It became a crater."
Four surgeries in a single year. And the saga isn't over.
What stands out about Bertinelli's approach is her refusal to treat this as a tragedy requiring a solemn press tour. She cracked jokes. She pointed to her cats, Henry, Batman, and Luna, and told People they're the only ones looking at her body anyway.
"I have to have one more surgery to even them out. Me and these guys are the only ones looking at my boobs anyways, but I don't care because I can't see without my glasses on ... I'll have to date somebody who can't see."
During her conversation with Barrymore, Bertinelli recounted showing the damage and watching Barrymore's reaction shift from casual curiosity to genuine shock. Barrymore had initially asked how bad it could really be. Bertinelli mimicked her eventual response: "Oh yeah, that's bad."
Barrymore, to her credit, pivoted to problem-solving. "And then I proceeded to be like, here's what we can do," Barrymore said.
Bertinelli summed up the exchange with warmth: "I love her honesty. It's like, I can trust this woman."
There's a reason this story resonates beyond celebrity gossip. Bertinelli got implants in an era when cosmetic surgery was already being marketed as a path to confidence, and the decades since have only intensified that pressure. Social media has supercharged it. Filters, influencer endorsements, and an entire industry built on the premise that your body is a problem waiting for a product.
What rarely makes the highlight reel is this part: the complications, the revisions, the infections, the decades of discomfort that follow a decision made at a moment of insecurity. Bertinelli got implants because she hated her body. She spent years embarrassed that she'd done it. And now she's dealing with the physical wreckage of a choice the culture told her was empowering.
None of this is an argument for government regulation or moral panic. It's simpler than that. The cultural machinery that tells young women their bodies need fixing rarely sticks around for the consequences. Bertinelli, at 65, is doing something useful by being blunt about what the brochure left out.
She closed her public remarks the way she's handled the whole ordeal, with a joke that barely conceals the weight underneath:
"Anyway, those were my boobs. Anybody want to date me? It was so serious I just had to find the humor in it."
When Barrymore reminded her, she said she wasn't dating, adding a hopeful "yet," Bertinelli didn't argue the point. She'd already said the quiet part out loud: "My boobs suck, but I'm not dating, so it doesn't matter."
Sometimes the bravest thing a public figure can do is stop performing and just tell the truth. Bertinelli did that. The culture that sold her the implants in the first place could stand to listen.
The federal government on Wednesday officially unloaded a massive Washington, D.C. office building that has sat empty since March 2025, a move expected to save taxpayers at least $200 million. The U.S. General Services Administration confirmed the sale of the former GSA Regional Office Building at 301 7th St SW to Dalian Development.
The building, constructed between 1929 and 1932, had been bleeding money the entire time it collected dust. No federal employees inside. No productive use. Just an aging monument to government inertia, maintained on the public dime while bureaucrats did nothing about it.
Until now.
Republican Iowa Sen. Joni Ernst, who has spent years pushing to sell off vacant federal properties, praised GSA Administrator Edward C. Forst for driving the deal to completion. Ernst told the Daily Caller News Foundation:
"Even though this building has been vacant, the American people have still been footing the bill. With this sale, we are saving Americans over $205 million and taking an additional $500 million in required updates off taxpayers' tab. I'm thankful Administrator Forst and the Trump administration are putting taxpayers first."
Read those numbers again. Over $205 million in direct savings, plus $500 million in deferred maintenance that taxpayers will never have to fund. That is $705 million in taxpayer exposure eliminated by selling a single building that nobody was using.
Ernst framed the sale as the culmination of a long fight, posting on social media on March 25, 2026: "I've been working to put Washington's empty government buildings up FOR SALE. Now @USGSA's Regional Office Building in D.C. is officially SOLD. That's millions saved for taxpayers!"
The sale of one building is welcome news. The larger picture is staggering.
The bipartisan Public Buildings Reform Board, which recommended the disposition of this property in its Second Round Report issued in May 2025, confirmed it was pleased to see the GSA follow through. But a PBRB report released March 5 revealed the scope of what the federal government has neglected across its entire real estate portfolio. The estimated cost to clear up the building maintenance backlog stands at $50 billion, more than twice the prior GSA estimate.
The reason is straightforward. The federal government's maintenance budget has been "chronically underfunded" for years. As the PBRB report noted:
"GSA has historically received funds equal to about 0.375% of the portfolio's Functional Replacement Value (FRV), far below the industry standard of 2–4% considered sustainable."
The industry standard is 2 to 4 percent. The federal government has been spending 0.375 percent. No private company could survive that kind of negligence. The government simply passed the bill forward, year after year, expecting future taxpayers to absorb the consequences of present-day indifference.
This is not an isolated case. The federal government is sitting on a sprawling inventory of properties that serve no one:
Doubled usage and still only a third of the building is occupied. That tells you how hollow the federal footprint had become before anyone tried to fix it.
Ernst laid the groundwork for this fight well before the sale went through. She released a 60-page report on Dec. 5, 2024, documenting the scale of the federal government's empty-building problem. The findings were damning then. The fact that action is only now catching up to the research tells you everything about the pace of Washington when no one is applying pressure.
For decades, the federal government's instinct has been to acquire, never to shed. Buildings fall into disuse, maintenance backlogs balloon, and the response from career bureaucrats is to request more funding rather than ask the obvious question: why are we keeping buildings no one works in?
That question never gets asked because empty buildings don't generate constituent complaints. No one protests outside a vacant federal office. The waste is invisible until someone bothers to look, and the people closest to it have every incentive not to.
The sale of 301 7th St SW is one transaction. It is proof of concept that the federal government can, when properly led, divest itself of assets that serve no public purpose and cost the public dearly. The $50 billion maintenance backlog, the 285 empty USPS buildings, the two-thirds vacant USDA headquarters: those are still waiting.
Every day they sit idle, the meter runs.
The Georgia Court of Appeals just gave Fulton County Democrats the power to block Republican appointments to the county's Board of Registration and Elections. The ruling, delivered on March 20 in Fulton County Board of Commissioners v. Fulton County Republican Party, reversed a lower court order that had required the Democrat-controlled Board of Commissioners to seat two GOP nominees. It also wiped out a $10,000-a-day contempt fine that had been imposed for the county's refusal to comply.
The decision turns on a single word: "appoint." And depending on how Georgia lawmakers respond, it could reshape how election oversight boards are composed across the state's largest metro counties.
According to The Federalist, the fight started in May 2025, when the Fulton County Board of Commissioners rejected Julie Adams and Jason Frazier, the Republican Party's nominees to the county election board. Adams is currently the board's only Republican member. Her term has expired, but she remains in holdover status until she or a successor is formally seated.
The Fulton County Republican Party sued. In August 2025, Superior Court Judge David Emerson ordered the county to seat both nominees. When the commissioners still refused, Emerson imposed a $10,000-a-day contempt fine, calling the county's conduct "stubbornly litigious and acted in bad faith."
That should have settled it. It didn't.
Presiding Judge Anne Barnes, writing for the Court of Appeals, held that the board's power to "appoint" under Georgia law is inherently discretionary. In other words, the statute requiring the commissioners to appoint from nominations made by the party doesn't actually mean they have to accept the party's nominees.
The court reversed both the order to seat Adams and Frazier and the contempt fine.
Georgia Republican Party Chairman Josh McKoon did not mince words:
"The Georgia Court of Appeals just handed Fulton County Democrats a veto pen over Republican nominations to the Board of Elections. 'Shall appoint from nominations made by the party' apparently now means 'unless we don't like them.'"
He characterized the ruling as "predictable but outrageous."
The statute at the center of this case, O.C.G.A. § 21-2-40, uses the phrase "shall appoint from nominations made by the party." In virtually every other legal context, "shall" is mandatory. It means you do the thing. It does not mean you think about the thing and then do whatever you want.
The Court of Appeals read it differently. By ruling that "appoint" carries inherent discretion, the court effectively converted a mandatory duty into an optional courtesy. The Republican Party nominates. The Democrat-controlled commission decides whether those nominations are worthy.
The practical result is simple: one party picks its own board members, and the other party's picks are subject to the opposing party's approval.
Jason Frazier, one of the rejected nominees, laid out the stakes plainly:
"If this holds, the Dems on the Fulton County Board of Commissioners can essentially pick their Dem Board of Elections Members, The Chair AND THE REPUBLICANS."
That's not bipartisan election oversight. That's one-party control with a bipartisan label.
Julie Adams framed the ruling as something bigger than one county squabble, and she's right. Her statement cut to the structural damage this precedent invites:
"This action destroys parity — the bipartisan balance that protects election integrity — by granting one party unchecked control over election oversight. It erodes public trust, as citizens inevitably see bias even where none exists. And it sets a dangerous precedent, signaling to other metro counties that political power, not fairness, governs who oversees elections."
Election boards exist precisely because voters need to trust the process. That trust depends on the presence of genuine opposition voices with real authority, not token appointees who survive only if the majority party finds them agreeable. The entire architecture of bipartisan oversight collapses when one side holds veto power over the other side's representatives.
Consider the incentive structure this ruling creates. If you're a Democrat-controlled county commission in Georgia, you now have a court-approved method for ensuring the Republican seats on your election board are filled by Republicans who won't cause you any trouble. Reject the nominees the party sends. Wait. Repeat. Eventually, the party either sends someone you like or the seat stays empty.
That's not a loophole. That's a blueprint.
Fulton County GOP Chair Stephanie Endres said the party is considering its options. That likely means a petition to the Georgia Supreme Court, though no formal announcement has been made.
The legislative path may prove more reliable. Victor Anderson, chairman of the House Government Affairs Committee, said the General Assembly is exploring ways, in this session, to strengthen and clarify the law on board appointments. If "shall appoint from nominations made by the party" wasn't clear enough, lawmakers will need to make it unmistakable.
The fix isn't complicated. The legislature can specify that the appointing body must seat the party's nominees absent disqualifying legal grounds, removing the discretionary fig leaf the Court of Appeals grafted onto the statute. Whether that fix arrives before Fulton County's election board operates with diminished Republican representation is another question.
Fulton County is Georgia's largest county. It is also, to put it gently, not a jurisdiction that has inspired universal confidence in its election administration over the past several cycles. The argument for robust bipartisan oversight isn't abstract. It's practical and urgent.
Democrats across the country spend enormous energy insisting that election integrity concerns are unfounded. They then fight, in court and at every procedural chokepoint, to ensure the people raising those concerns are excluded from the rooms where elections are administered.
Not one commissioner voted to seat the Republican nominees. Not one accepted the lower court's order without a fight. Not one treated bipartisan balance as something worth preserving when it cost them a political advantage.
Now a court has told them they were right to refuse.
If Georgia lawmakers want voters to trust the process, they need to make sure both parties actually have a seat at the table. Not a seat that the other party graciously permits them to occupy.
Barron Trump, the 20-year-old son of President Donald Trump, is listed as a director of Sollos Yerba Mate Inc., a beverage company registered in Florida and Delaware that has already raised $1 million in private capital and plans to begin selling its product as early as April 2026.
Business registration documents filed in both states name the youngest Trump alongside four other directors: Spencer Bernstein, Rudolfo Castello, Stephen Hall, and Valentino Gomez. The company is headquartered at a 4,500-square-foot property in Palm Beach, Florida, and is registered to a $16 million, five-bedroom residence owned by Jay Weitzman, described as a longtime Trump associate and donor.
Weitzman has denied any involvement in the company. According to Newsweek, he stated the address is being used because his grandson, one of the directors, lives there.
Whatever you think of the Trump name showing up on a beverage startup, the co-founders are putting skin in the game. Two of them have paused their college educations to make Sollos work, according to the Miami New Times.
Bernstein, a student at Villanova University, announced he was postponing his final semester after the company closed its seed round on January 8. He described the venture on LinkedIn as "something I've been building for the past eight months" and laid out the reasoning behind his decision:
"After weeks of contemplation, the decision became clear 30,000 feet in the air on my way back for what was supposed to be my final semester. On January 8, we hit a major milestone and closed our seed round. With a large DTC launch planned for the spring, I believe taking time off from class is necessary. I intend to complete my remaining coursework at a later date to receive my degree."
Hall, a University of Notre Dame student, made a similar move. In a January 2026 LinkedIn post, he said he was stepping away from his studies after a "successful pre-seed fundraising round" to "fully prioritize Sollos as we prepare for a spring DTC launch." He plans to return to Notre Dame in the fall.
Two college students dropping out, even temporarily, to chase a startup isn't unusual in American business. It's practically a Silicon Valley rite of passage. The difference here is the last name attached to one of the directors.
Sollos is positioning itself around the outdoor lifestyle culture of South Florida. The brand's LinkedIn page leans into that identity:
"Growing up in South Florida, we were shaped by the opportunity to spend time outdoors year-round. That experience led us to create Sollos, a beverage designed to complement life in the 'Sunshine State.'"
SEC filings show the company has raised $1 million in private capital. The direct-to-consumer launch is expected this spring, to go on sale in April 2026. The Zillow listing for the Palm Beach residence where the company is registered was removed from the site in January 2024, well before the company's public-facing activity began.
Unnamed "ethics experts" have reportedly raised questions about the "optics" of the venture. This is the part of the story where the media template practically writes itself: a Trump family member does something entirely legal, and a parade of anonymous institutional voices materializes to express vague concern.
A 20-year-old launching a drink company with college friends is not a scandal. It is commerce. Barron Trump has previously been linked to cryptocurrency ventures and a short-lived real estate company. None of that is unusual for someone from a wealthy, entrepreneurial family. The Kennedys had compound politics. The Bushes had oil. The Trumps build things and put their names on them.
The real question the "optics" crowd never answers is simple: what, specifically, is wrong? A young man whose father is the president filed business documents, raised capital through proper SEC channels, and registered a company at a real address. If there's a violation somewhere in that sequence, name it. If there isn't, the concern isn't about ethics. It's about the name on the filing.
The yerba mate market is crowded and competitive. Guayakí has owned the space for years, and newer entrants are fighting for shelf space in a health-conscious consumer economy that rewards branding as much as product quality. A Trump-adjacent beverage company will have no trouble generating attention. Converting that attention into sustained revenue is a different challenge entirely.
Sollos will succeed or fail on the same terms as any other startup: product, execution, and market timing. The founders are young, funded, and willing to bet their college semesters on the outcome. That's not an ethics story. That's an American one.
Investigators searching for Nancy Guthrie, the 84-year-old mother of "Today" show host Savannah Guthrie, have zeroed in on a possible incident at her Tucson home on January 11, roughly three weeks before she vanished. Pima County Sheriff Chris Nanos confirmed the development in an interview with KOLD on Monday, as the search for the elderly woman entered its seventh week with no resolution.
Nanos told the station that FBI analysis had pointed investigators toward that specific evening.
"We do believe that something occurred on Jan. 11, and that's with the FBI's analysis of the equipment and digital stuff they've done."
He refused to expand on what evidence led investigators to that evening in particular. What happened on January 11, who may have been involved, and how it connects to her disappearance remain unanswered.
Nancy Guthrie disappeared the night of January 31 after returning home from dinner with family. Police believe she was kidnapped from her Tucson home during the early hours of February 1. She was reported missing that same day.
The New York Post reported that chilling security footage later recovered from her doorbell camera showed a masked man. Beyond that, the public record is thin. No suspect has been named. No arrest has been made. The 52-day search has, by all available accounts, produced no breakthrough.
Officials visited Nancy Guthrie's residence on February 25, 2026, though details about what that visit yielded have not been disclosed.
Nancy Guthrie's family issued a statement urging the Tucson community to search their own memories and records for anything that might help. The statement made clear they believe the answers are local.
"We continue to believe it is Tucsonans, and the greater southern Arizona community, that hold the key to finding resolution in this case."
The family specifically asked residents to think back to two windows of time: the late evening of January 11 and the hours surrounding January 31 into the early morning of February 1.
"Someone knows something. It's possible a member of this community has information that they do not even realize is significant. We hope people search their memories, especially around the key timelines of January 31 and the early morning hours of February 1, as well as the late evening of January 11."
They asked neighbors and community members to check camera footage, journal notes, text messages, and any conversations that might, in retrospect, hold significance.
"No detail is too small. It may be the key."
That kind of plea, from a family seven weeks deep into a nightmare with no answers, lands with weight.
The January 11 revelation raises as many questions as it addresses. If investigators believe something happened at Nancy Guthrie's home three weeks before she was taken, the natural question is whether this was a failed attempt, a reconnaissance visit, or something else entirely. Nanos isn't saying. The FBI's "digital stuff" analysis suggests electronic evidence, possibly from the doorbell camera or other devices, but the sheriff has kept the specifics locked down.
That kind of operational secrecy is standard in active investigations. It can also become a shield when an investigation isn't producing results. Nanos has faced mounting backlash over the fruitless search, and the longer this case goes without a suspect or a concrete lead shared with the public, the harder it becomes to distinguish necessary discretion from institutional failure.
Seven weeks. An 84-year-old woman snatched from her own home in the middle of the night. A masked figure on a doorbell camera. And a community left to sift through their own text messages hoping to find a clue that a full law enforcement apparatus, with FBI backing, has not.
Someone in Tucson knows something. The question is whether anyone with a badge can find them before this family's hope runs out.
A replica of the Christopher Columbus statue that protesters ripped down and hurled into Baltimore's Inner Harbor during the 2020 riots now stands on the grounds of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, steps from the White House. The statue's journey from the bottom of a harbor to the most prominent address in American politics is, on its own, a story worth telling.
White House spokesperson Davis Ingle left no room for ambiguity about the gesture:
"In this White House, Christopher Columbus is a hero. And he will continue to be honored as such by President Donald Trump."
The original monument was unveiled by President Ronald Reagan in 1984. On July 4, 2020, amid the wave of statue-toppling that swept the country, protesters used ropes and chains to bring it down and dump it into Baltimore's Inner Harbor. Sculptor Will Hemsley was later hired to restore the statue, combining recovered pieces from the harbor with new additions and repairs.
Italian American Organizations United, which owns the statue, voted unanimously to loan it to the federal government after being contacted by a White House intermediary around Columbus Day last year. John Pica, the organization's president, captured the sentiment plainly:
"We are delighted the statue has found a place where it can peacefully shine and be protected."
Maryland state Delegate Nino Mangione, a Republican from Baltimore County, told Newsweek last month what the statue's restoration and relocation meant to the community that built it:
"The statue had to be repaired after the thugs attempted to destroy it and threw it into the Inner Harbor. The statue is repaired and ready to be displayed in a prominent position of honor, worthy of the great Christopher Columbus…We are so pleased at the prospect of the statue being displayed on the hallowed grounds of the White House."
Something is fitting about the destination. A mob destroyed the statue to make a political statement. Now it sits closer to the seat of American power than it ever did in Baltimore. The mob's statement has been answered.
Columbus Day has been a federal holiday since President Franklin D. Roosevelt designated it in 1934. Its roots stretch back further. The first Columbus Day celebration followed the 1891 lynching of 11 Italian-American immigrants in New Orleans, a moment when Italian Americans claimed Columbus as a symbol of their place in the American story. That history matters, even if it has become fashionable to forget it.
Former President Joe Biden became the first U.S. president to formally issue an Indigenous Peoples' Day proclamation in 2021, celebrating the "invaluable contributions and resilience of Indigenous peoples" in a gesture that effectively split the holiday's meaning in two. Trump has declined to continue that practice. He ignored Indigenous Peoples' Day entirely and, last October, issued a Columbus Day proclamation calling Columbus "the original American hero, a giant of Western civilization, and one of the most gallant and visionary men to ever walk the face of the Earth."
Trump posted on Truth Social in 2025:
"I'm bringing Columbus Day back from the ashes. The Democrats did everything possible to destroy Christopher Columbus, his reputation, and all of the Italians that love him so much."
This is not a new position for him. As early as 2017, Trump spoke out against a review of the 76-foot Columbus statue at New York's Columbus Circle. The statue near the White House is simply the most visible expression of a principle he has held publicly for nearly a decade.
The left spent the summer of 2020 insisting that tearing down statues was a necessary reckoning with history. Columbus was a particular target because he could be recast from explorer to villain with minimal effort, provided you stripped away every bit of context about why Italian Americans adopted him as their symbol in the first place.
But statue removal was never really about history. It was about power: who gets to decide which figures are honored, which stories are told, and which communities' heritage is worth protecting. When a mob pulls down a statue and throws it in a harbor, it is not engaging in scholarship. It is asserting dominance over public memory.
The response to that assertion matters. Replacing the statue, restoring it, and placing it on federal grounds sends a clear message: the mob does not get the final word. Destruction is not policy. Vandalism is not democracy.
As the country approaches the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the question of how America remembers its past will only intensify. There will be louder demands to erase, rename, and redefine. There always are.
But somewhere near the White House, a statue that was dragged through harbor water now stands in the sun. That, too, is an answer.
President Trump announced Saturday that he will deploy ICE agents to U.S. airports as early as Monday if congressional Democrats refuse to fund the Department of Homeland Security. The move would put federal immigration enforcement officers in charge of airport security operations while TSA employees continue working without pay during the partial government shutdown.
Trump posted the threat on Truth Social, framing the deployment as both a security measure and an immigration enforcement opportunity.
"I will move our brilliant and patriotic ICE Agents to the Airports where they will do Security like no one has ever seen before."
He followed up with a second post that left no room for ambiguity.
"I look forward to moving ICE in on Monday, and have already told them to, 'GET READY.' NO MORE WAITING, NO MORE GAMES!"
Trump also claimed that ICE agents handling airport security would arrest illegal immigrants, specifically targeting individuals from Somalia. The White House, when asked for comment, referred reporters to Trump's social media posts. DHS did not respond to requests for comment.
The consequences of the funding standoff are already visible. Security lines at Newark Liberty International Airport stretched past capacity on March 21, with some travelers reporting delays of over an hour. Similar scenes played out in Atlanta and Houston. TSA officers, who earn between $46,000 and $55,000 on average, missed their first full paychecks last week. They are still required to show up and work because much of DHS is classified as essential under the Antideficiency Act, which bars federal agencies from spending funds Congress has not appropriated, as CNBC reports.
Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy warned Friday that the situation will deteriorate rapidly without a deal.
"If a deal isn't cut, you're going to see what's happening today look like child's play."
Earlier in the week, Duffy warned that smaller airports could shut down entirely due to staffing shortages. The agents screening your bags and checking your IDs are doing it for free right now. That's not a sustainable model, and everyone in Washington knows it.
Elon Musk, Tesla CEO and former Trump advisor, offered Saturday to personally cover the salaries of TSA personnel for the duration of the funding impasse.
"I would like to offer to pay the salaries of TSA personnel during this funding impasse that is negatively affecting the lives of so many Americans at airports throughout the country."
It's unclear how such an offer would work mechanically. Musk did not respond to requests for further comment. But the symbolism is hard to miss: one private citizen is willing to reach into his own pocket to keep airports running while an entire congressional caucus plays games with homeland security funding.
This isn't the first time a private donor has stepped into the gap during a government shutdown. Last year, Trump announced that an unnamed donor had provided $130 million to help cover military pay shortfalls during the administration's first shutdown. The New York Times later reported that the donor was Timothy Mellon, an heir to a renowned Gilded Age banking family. That donation worked out to about $100 per service member, against a backdrop where it costs nearly $6.4 billion to pay U.S. troops every two weeks.
The fact that billionaires keep having to underwrite basic government functions because Democrats won't pass funding bills tells you everything about where the obstruction actually lives.
Behind the scenes, a bipartisan group of senators met with DHS border czar Tom Homan to discuss additional immigration enforcement concessions the White House offered on Friday, according to POLITICO. The specifics of those concessions have not been made public. The Senate held sessions Saturday and Sunday, though it remained unclear whether those sessions would produce any movement on the DHS funding dispute specifically.
The White House and Democrats have been trading proposals for over a month. Over a month of back and forth, while TSA agents work for nothing, travelers miss flights, and smaller airports inch toward closure. The administration has made concessions. It has come to the table. At some point, the question stops being "what is the White House willing to offer" and becomes "what are Democrats willing to accept."
Trump's ICE threat is a pressure move, and it's designed to work on multiple levels. On the surface, it addresses the immediate operational crisis: airports need security personnel, and if TSA can't function at full capacity, someone has to fill the gap. But the deeper message targets Democrats where they are most uncomfortable. ICE agents at airports don't just screen luggage. They enforce immigration law. The prospect of federal agents identifying and arresting illegal immigrants at major transit hubs puts Democrats in the position of either funding DHS or explaining why they'd rather let airports collapse than allow immigration enforcement to expand.
That's not a comfortable position for a party that spent years insisting border security and public safety aren't connected.
Democrats have spent the shutdown framing the standoff as reckless governance. But the recklessness runs in one direction. The administration offered concessions. A bipartisan group of senators sat down with Homan. The White House has signaled flexibility. What Democrats have signaled is that they would rather watch TSA agents go unpaid and airport operations degrade than give ground on immigration enforcement.
Travelers stuck in hour-long security lines in Newark, Atlanta, and Houston aren't thinking about legislative strategy. They're thinking about whether they'll make their flight. The people working those checkpoints for free aren't thinking about messaging. They're thinking about rent.
Monday is coming. The ICE agents have been told to get ready. The only people who can stop this from escalating are the same people who refused to fund DHS in the first place.
A 27-year-old Guatemalan man accused of raping a 5-year-old girl on Long Island was nearly released back onto the streets, stopped only because investigators found a procedural workaround to keep him within reach of federal immigration agents. Carlos Aguilar Reynoso now faces up to 25 years behind bars if convicted on the top count. He almost faced nothing at all.
The reason he nearly walked free wasn't a lack of evidence or a failure of police work. It was New York law, working exactly as designed.
According to The New York Post, the victim's mother asked Reynoso to babysit her daughter last month. On Feb. 1, when the mother returned home from work, she discovered blood in the child's underwear and rushed her to the hospital. The child was later transferred to a specialty hospital, where medical staff collected a rape kit and were forced to perform surgery to repair internal injuries.
She is five years old. With the investigation ongoing and DNA from the child not yet processed, Reynoso could only initially be charged with endangering the welfare of a child.
Under New York's bail reform laws, prosecutors are not allowed to seek bail for that offense. He would have been released. ICE would also have been barred from picking Reynoso up over his illegal immigration status on his way out of court, because New York's sanctuary laws limit local authorities' cooperation with federal immigration agents.
A man who allegedly entered the country illegally, who was suspected of one of the most depraved crimes imaginable against a small child, would have walked out the door and potentially disappeared.
Investigators, aware of the legal trap they were in, used their discretion. Instead of processing Reynoso through the court system, where bail reform and sanctuary protections would have shielded him, cops issued the man a desk-appearance ticket. That procedural move meant he was released from the precinct, not from a courtroom.
Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers were then allowed to nab him on his way out of the precinct the day after the alleged rape.
On Feb. 13, the DNA results came back. Reynoso was charged with first-degree rape, predatory sexual assault against a child, sexual abuse, and endangering the welfare of a child.
He is being held until his court appearance. His relationship to the mother remains unclear. A source with knowledge of the situation told The Post that Reynoso allegedly entered the country illegally. His lawyer did not return a request for comment.
Consider what New York's legal architecture almost produced here. A child was allegedly brutalized so severely that she required reconstructive surgery.
The suspect was in custody. And the state's own laws nearly guaranteed his release, not because he was innocent, not because the evidence was thin, but because the initial charge available to prosecutors fell below the threshold that allows judges to set bail.
Bail reform was sold to New Yorkers as a measure to prevent poor defendants from languishing in jail over minor offenses. Whatever the original intent, the policy now functions as a conveyor belt that processes suspects back onto the street regardless of the danger they pose, so long as the paperwork at the moment of arrest doesn't meet an arbitrary severity line.
The facts on the ground can be horrifying. The charging document just has to be modest enough.
Sanctuary laws compound the problem. These policies exist to signal virtue to progressive constituencies, but their practical effect is to build a wall, not at the border, but between federal immigration enforcement and local law enforcement. ICE agents knew who Reynoso was. They knew where he was. New York law told them they couldn't touch him.
The only reason this story doesn't end with a suspected child rapist vanishing into the community is that investigators found a creative loophole. That's not a system working. That's a system being defeated by the people forced to operate within it.
Every policy choice carries a cost. New York legislators chose bail reform. They chose sanctuary protections. They chose to restrict cooperation with ICE.
Those choices have a price, and that price is not paid by the legislators who voted for them or the activists who demanded them. It is paid by a five-year-old girl on Long Island and by the communities that have to hope their local cops are clever enough to find a procedural trick the next time the law fails them.
There is no version of this story where the system performed admirably. Individual investigators showed ingenuity. The laws they navigated around showed rot.
Reynoso faces up to 25 years if convicted on the top count. But the question New York has to answer isn't about one suspect. It's about the next one, and whether there will be an investigator resourceful enough to find another trick, or whether the sanctuary state will do what it was built to do.