Biden to attend funeral for former Minnesota House Speaker Hortman, who was killed in shooting
The couple's private funeral, at the Basilica of Saint Mary in Minneapolis, is set for 10:30 a.m. Saturday. It will be livestreamed on the Department of Public Safety's YouTube channel.
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Neither Biden nor Harris is expected to speak. Harris expressed her condolences earlier this week to Hortman's adult children, and spoke with Gov. Tim Walz, her running mate on the 2024 Democratic presidential ticket, who extended an invitation on behalf of the Hortman family, her office said.
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The scene at the Capitol
Hortman, a Democrat, was the first woman and one of fewer than 20 Minnesotans to lay in state at the Capitol. It was the first time a couple has been accorded the honor, and the first for a dog. Gilbert was seriously wounded in the attack and had to be euthanized. The Hortmans' caskets and the dog's urn were arranged in the center of the rotunda, under the Capitol dome, with law enforcement officers keeping watch as thousands of people filed by. Many fought back tears as they left.
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Among the first to pay their respects were Walz, who has called Hortman his closest political ally, and his wife, Gwen. Biden, a Catholic, visited later in the afternoon, walking up to the velvet rope in front of the caskets, making the sign of the cross and spending a few moments by himself in silence. He then took a knee briefly, got up, made the sign of the cross again and walked off to greet people waiting in the wings of the rotunda.
Lisa Greene, who lives in the Minneapolis suburb of Brooklyn Park like Hortman did, but in a different House district, said she came to the Capitol because she had so much respect for the former speaker.
'She was just amazing. Amazing woman. And I was just so proud that she represented the city that I lived in,' Greene said in a voice choked with emotion. 'She was such a leader. She could bring people together. She was so accessible. I mean, she was friendly, you could talk to her.'
But, she went on to say admiringly, Hortman was also 'a boss.'
'She just knew what she was doing and she could just make things happen,' she said.
A hearing takes a twist
The man accused of killing the Hortmans at their home and wounding Democratic state Sen. John Hoffman, and his wife, Yvette, at their home in nearby Champlin, made a short court appearance Friday for what the acting U.S. attorney for Minnesota, Joseph Thompson, has called 'a political assassination.'
Vance Boelter, 57, of Green Isle, surrendered near his home the night of June 15 after what authorities called the largest search in Minnesota history.
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An unshaven Boelter was brought in wearing just a green padded suicide prevention suit and orange slippers. Federal defender Manny Atwal asked Magistrate Judge Douglas Micko to continue the hearing until Thursday. He agreed. She said Boelter has been sleep deprived while on suicide watch in the Sherburne County Jail, and that it has been difficult to communicate with him as a result.
'Your honor, I haven't really slept in about 12 to 14 days,' Boelter told the judge. And he denied being suicidal. 'I've never been suicidal and I am not suicidal now.'
Atwal told the court that Boelter had been in what's known as a 'Gumby suit,' without undergarments, ever since his transfer to the jail after his first court appearance on June 16. She said the lights are on in his area 24 hours a day, doors slam frequently, the inmate in the next cell spreads feces on the walls and the smell drifts to Boelter's cell.
The attorney said transferring him to segregation instead, and giving him a normal jail uniform, would let him get some sleep, restore some dignity and let him communicate better.
The case continues
Boelter did not enter a plea. Prosecutors need to secure a grand jury indictment first. According to the federal complaint, police video shows Boelter outside the Hortmans' home and captures the sound of gunfire. And it says security video shows Boelter approaching the front doors of two other lawmakers' homes.
His lawyers have declined to comment on the charges, which could carry the federal death penalty. Thompson said last week that no decision has been made. Minnesota abolished its death penalty in 1911. Boelter also faces separate murder and attempted murder charges in state court that could carry life without parole.
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Friends have described Boelter as an evangelical Christian with politically conservative views. But prosecutors have declined so far to speculate on a motive.
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New York Post
37 minutes ago
- New York Post
California closes $12B deficit by cutting back immigrants' access to health care
California Gov. Gavin Newsom signed on Friday a budget that pares back a number of progressive priorities, including a landmark health care expansion for low-income adult illegal immigrants, to close a $12 billion deficit. It's the third year in a row the nation's most populous state has been forced to slash funding or stop some of the programs championed by Democratic leaders. Lawmakers passed the budget earlier in the day following an agreement of a $321 billion spending plan between Newsom and Democratic leaders. 7 California Gov. Gavin Newsom signed a budget that pares back a number of progressive priorities, including a health care expansion for low-income adult illegal immigrants. AP But the whole budget will be void if lawmakers don't send him legislation to make it easier to build housing by Monday. The budget avoids some of the most devastating cuts to essential safety net programs, state leaders said. They mostly relied on using state savings, borrowing from special funds and delaying payments to plug the budget hole. 'It's balanced, it maintains substantial reserves, and it's focused on supporting Californians,' Newsom said in a statement about the budget. California also faces potential federal cuts to health care programs and broad economic uncertainty that could force even deeper cuts. Newsom in May estimated that federal policies — including on tariffs and immigration enforcement — could reduce state tax revenue by $16 billion. 7 California Gov. Gavin Newsom speaks to reporters in San Francisco, Calif. in June 12, 2025. JOHN G MABANGLO/EPA-EFE/Shutterstock 7 Migrant farm laborers have their temperatures in King City, Calif. on April 28, 2020. Getty Images 'We've had to make some tough decisions,' Senate President Pro Tempore Mike McGuire said Friday. 'I know we're not going to please everyone, but we're doing this without any new taxes on everyday Californians.' Republican lawmakers said they were left out of budget negotiations. They also criticized Democrats for not doing enough to address future deficits, which could range between $17 billion to $24 billion annually. 7 Protesters hold up signs supporting healthcare for illegal immigrants during California's Immigrants Day of Action on May 20, 2019 in Sacramento, Calif. AP 'We're increasing borrowing, we're taking away from the rainy day fund, and we're not reducing our spending,' said Republican state Sen. Tony Strickland prior to the vote. 'And this budget also does nothing about affordability in California.' Here's a look at spending in key areas: Health care Under the budget deal, California will stop enrolling new adult patients without legal status in its state-funded health care program for low-income people starting 2026. The state will also implement a $30 monthly premium July 2027 for immigrants remaining on the program, including some with legal status. The premiums would apply to adults under 60 years old. The changes to the program, known as Medi-Cal, are a scaled-back version of Newsom's proposal in May. Still, it's a major blow to an ambitious program started last year to help the state inch closer to a goal of universal health care. Democratic state Sen. Maria Elena Durazo broke with her party and voted 'no' on the health care changes, calling them a betrayal of immigrant communities. The deal also removes $78 million in funding for mental health phone lines, including a program that served 100,000 people annually. It will eliminate funding that helps pay for dental services for low-income people in 2026 and delay implementation of legislation requiring health insurance to cover fertility services by six months to 2026. But lawmakers also successfully pushed back on several proposed cuts from Newsom that they called 'draconian.' The deal secures funding for a program providing in-home domestic and personal care services for some low-income residents and Californians with disabilities. It also avoids cuts to Planned Parenthood. 7 A family whose parens are illegal immigrants sign up for government assisted health care at the San Mateo Medical Center in San Mateo Calif. on Feb. 22, 2023. AP Environment Lawmakers agreed to let the state tap $1 billion from its cap-and-trade program to fund state firefighting efforts. The cap-and-trade program is a market-based system aimed at reducing carbon emissions. Companies have to buy credits to pollute, and that money goes into a fund lawmakers are supposed to tap for climate-related spending. Newsom wanted to reauthorize the program through 2045, with a guarantee that $1 billion would annually go to the state's long-delayed high-speed rail project. 7 The California State Capitol in Sacramento, Calif. on Aug. 5, 2024. AP The budget doesn't make that commitment, as lawmakers wanted to hash out spending plans outside of the budget process. The rail project currently receives 25% of the cap-and-trade proceeds, which is roughly $1 billion annually depending on the year. Legislative leaders also approved funding to help transition part-time firefighters into full-time positions. Many state firefighters only work nine months each year, which lawmakers said harms the state's ability to prevent and fight wildfires. The deal includes $10 million to increase the daily wage for incarcerated firefighters, who earn $5.80 to $10.24 a day currently. Public safety The budget agreement will provide $80 million to help implement a tough-on-crime initiative voters overwhelmingly approved last year. The measure makes shoplifting a felony for repeat offenders, increases penalties for some drug charges and gives judges the authority to order people with multiple drug charges into treatment. Most of the fund, $50 million, will help counties build more behavioral health beds. Probation officers will get $15 million for pre-trial services and courts will receive $20 million to support increased caseloads. Advocates of the measure — including sheriffs, district attorneys and probation officers — said that's not enough money. Some have estimated it would take around $400 million for the first year of the program. 7 A protester holds an American and Mexican flag outside the Federal Building in Los Angeles during a rally on June 6, 2025. AP Other priorities Newsom and lawmakers agreed to raise the state's film tax credit from $330 million to $750 million annually to boost Hollywood. The program, a priority for Newsom, will start this year and expire in 2030. The budget provides $10 million to help support immigration legal services, including deportation defense. But cities and counties won't see new funding to help them address homelessness next year, which local leaders said could lead to the loss of thousands of shelter beds. The budget also doesn't act on Newsom's proposal to streamline a project to create a massive underground tunnel to reroute a big part of the state's water supply.
USA Today
39 minutes ago
- USA Today
Trump's aggressive immigration crackdown is getting ICE agents hurt
New tactics are being met with rising public resistance and desperation from suspects facing ICE detention and deportation. Masked agents. Terrified suspects. Emotions running high as screaming crowds press in, cell phone cameras in hand. Amid surging immigration enforcement across the country, federal agents are being hurt and hospitalized as they make increasingly public – and risky – arrests of people they believe are undocumented. White House officials say there's been a 500% increase in assaults on agents, as President Donald Trump's massive deportation campaign ramps up. Administration officials say bold tactics are needed to repel what they call an "invasion" of immigrants. But policing experts say the aggressive approach is provoking unnecessarily dangerous encounters. In a recent incident in Nebraska, a female ICE agent was thrown to the ground and choked by an accused Tren de Aragua gang member who said he was formerly a Venezuelan soldier, according to court documents. The suspect escaped and was later captured with the help of local police. Bystander videos have captured agents wrestling suspects to the ground on crowded streets and chasing them through farm fields. One widely circulated video showed an agent grabbing a U.S. citizen by the neck in a Walmart parking lot as he resisted being taken; federal prosecutors have charged the man with assault after he allegedly punched an agent. "Just this week, an ICE officer was dragged 50 yards by a car while arresting an illegal alien sex offender," Tricia McLaughlin, Homeland Security Assistant Secretary, told USA TODAY. "Every day the men and women of ICE put their lives on the line to protect and defend the lives of American citizens." Trump, who has promised to deport 1 million immigrants this year, ordered U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents "to do all in their power to achieve the very important goal of delivering the single largest mass deportation program in history." In a June 15 social media post, he also said: "Every day, the brave men and women of ICE are subjected to violence, harassment and even threats from radical Democrat politicians, but nothing will stop us from executing our mission, and fulfilling our mandate to the American people." Art Del Cueto, the vice president of the National Border Patrol Council, said the union's 16,000 members welcome Trump's tough new approach to immigration enforcement. Detainees are increasingly fighting back, he said, because they know there's no escape: "That's why you're seeing attacks on agents." 'It's not about public safety anymore' But there's growing pushback from the public. Recent immigration sweeps in the Los Angeles area sparked widespread protests and small riots downtown, as people threw rocks at law enforcement and set patrol vehicles on fire, and federal agents responded with tear gas and pepper spray. In some cases, federal agents are getting into shoving matches with crowds trying to film or stop what they consider to be overzealous detentions, especially when the masked agents refuse to identify themselves. Policing experts say ICE agents are exacerbating tense situations with practices that many American police departments have largely disavowed. While there's little objection to detaining violent criminals, masked agents descending upon Home Depot parking lots to arrest day laborers and food vendors – most with no criminal record – sparks panic. "The aggressive police tactics being employed by the federal government are causing the issue," said longtime police supervisor Diane Goldstein, who now directs the Law Enforcement Action Partnership, which has spent decades working to develop trust between the public and police. "Their direction and their leadership is directly putting them in a horrific situation," she said. The ICE tactics on display are a dramatic departure from how cautiously ICE agents previously worked, said Jason Houser, a former Department of Homeland Security counterterrorism official. Houser is an Afghanistan combat veteran who was ICE chief of staff during the Biden administration. Previously, ICE agents prioritized serious criminal offenders for arrest, Houser said. A team of agents might work for days or weeks to surveil a single subject before making an arrest carefully timed to minimize risks to the public and to agents themselves. ICE agents are trained to "think about prioritization of public safety, risk and removability," he added. Internal Justice Department training programs stress that police agencies should focus on de-escalation whenever possible and avoid making arrests in public areas, especially when there's no imminent threat to public safety. "Now we have political quotas: 'Give me 3,000 arrests' (per day). And all gloves are off," Houser said. "It's not about public safety any more." Before Trump, assaults were on the decline An increase in assaults on officers and agents this year would reverse a three-year trend of declining incidents, according to internal Department of Homeland Security statistics. Despite millions of daily interactions with the public, it was rare for ICE, customs officers and Border Patrol agents to get attacked on the job. The agency logged 363 assault incidents in fiscal 2024, down from 474 incidents in fiscal 2023 and 524 in fiscal 2022, according to DHS data. U.S. Customs and Border Protection, which includes both customs officers and Border Patrol agents, has 45,000 law enforcement personnel and is the nation's largest law enforcement agency. Additionally, ICE has roughly 6,200 deportation agents on staff. White House officials declined to answer USA TODAY's questions about the numbers underlying the 500% increase in assaults, including the total number of injuries and their severity. It's also unclear how many additional federal agents have so far been re-assigned to immigration enforcement. Masked agents refusing to identify themselves In Huntington Park, Calif, authorities this week detained a man they said appeared to be pretending to be an ICE agent ‒ a situation they said was possible because real ICE agents are refusing to properly identify themselves as they aggressively detain people. Mayor Arturo Flores said the way ICE agents are acting does not present "the image of a just and lawful government." He said he can understand why people are angry and scared, especially knowing there are potential vigilantes and impersonators operating in the area. In response to the accused impersonator's arrest, Huntington Park leaders asked local police to verify the identity of any suspected ICE agents operating in the city. The suspect was found with multiple police radios, official-looking federal paperwork, flashing lights and a 9 mm handgun in his otherwise unmarked vehicle, according to city police. "When people cannot trust who is enforcing the law, public safety us undermines and fear begins to take hold," Flores said in a June 27 press conference. "What we are saying is simple: if you are acting with federal authority, show it. ID yourself Do not hide behind unmarked vehicles, facemasks and vague credentials." 'Someone's going to pull a gun' Underlying the tension between ICE and members of the public is a fundamental fact: ICE is arresting a record number of people who have no criminal record. An analysis by the Libertarian Cato Institute shows ICE is arresting four times more people with no criminal convictions or criminal charges per week now than the agency did during the same period in June 2017, when Trump was also president. "This is a radical tactical shift compared to Trump 1.0," David Bier, Cato director of immigration studies, in a post on X. ICE officials said they are responding to interference by the public. They say advocacy groups are stalking agents as they try to make arrests, putting the agents at risk and allowing their targets to escape. Federal agents testifying before a Senate committee on June 26 said that during a recent enforcement operation bystanders photographed an officer and posted the photo online with a threatening message. There's been a small but growing number of incidents, too, in which people called their local police department to report the presence of armed, masked men bundling community members into unmarked vehicles. ICE officials also often say that if hundreds of "sanctuary" jurisdictions around the country would hand over immigrants after they've completed a criminal sentence, that would reduce the need for agents to make risky, public arrests. But prior to Trump's enforcement ramp-up – about 70% of people arrested by ICE were transferred directly from the prison system into ICE custody, according to the nonprofit Freedom for Immigrants. Trump's new approach has pushed agents to make more arrests in the community at places like Home Depot. The push to meet a quota is driving agents toward raids and round-ups that expose them to greater risk in the field, says Goldstein. She worries that aggressive tactics combined with masks will eventually lead to a shootout. Twenty-eight states have "Stand Your Ground" laws that allow citizens to shoot if they feel threatened. "If you have masked people running out at you, someone's going to pull a gun out and someone's going to get hurt," she said. Trump's Homeland Security leadership appears to have no plans to back down. "Federal law enforcement is facing an ever-escalating increase in assaults," DHS posted to X, "but we will not be deterred."
Atlantic
44 minutes ago
- Atlantic
The Red State Where Republicans Aren't Afraid of Trump
Donald Trump's least favorite House Republican, Representative Thomas Massie of Kentucky, likes to do an exaggerated impression of the president. As he recounted a long-ago phone call from Trump before a crowd of supporters in his district, Massie dropped the register of his voice to an octave resembling Yogi Bear's. 'It started out with: I'm more libertarian than you are,' Massie said. 'And it ended with: Well, you're going to get a primary if you vote for this.' The eruption that followed created a scene that you're unlikely to see anywhere else in America these days: a roomful of Republicans laughing at Trump's expense. The 54-year-old has been frustrating Trump since the beginning of the president's first term. The two are now fighting over the extent of Trump's war powers—Massie called the air strikes on Iran unconstitutional—and the president's 'big, beautiful bill,' which the seventh-term lawmaker opposed, one of just two House Republicans to do so. Massie is frequently a lone critic of the president in the 220-member House GOP caucus. But he's not such a solitary voice in the Kentucky delegation. The Bluegrass State backed Trump by 30.5 percentage points last year—one of his largest margins in the country. Nationwide, Republicans are more united around Trump than they've ever been. Yet Kentucky has become a rare hotbed of GOP resistance to the president's agenda. Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky, an early Trump presidential rival in 2016, is an ideological ally of Massie's; he's criticized the president's tariffs, his expansion of executive authority, and the deficit-busting legislation that contains the bulk of Trump's economic agenda. Then there's the state's senior senator, Mitch McConnell. Liberated from his commitments as Republican leader, the soon-to-retire McConnell has denounced Trump's Ukraine policy and his tariffs. He voted against more of the president's Cabinet nominees—Pete Hegseth, the defense secretary; Robert Kennedy Jr., the health secretary; and Tulsi Gabbard, the director of national intelligence—than any other GOP senator. McConnell, Paul, and Massie occasionally oppose Trump from different sides. But together they form a powerful bloc among the seven Republicans in Kentucky's eight-man congressional delegation, and their stands against the president are angering many of Trump's diehard supporters in the state, who feel oddly unrepresented by the lawmakers they've sent to Washington. 'We voted for Trump to straighten some things out,' Devon Cain, a 77-year-old retiree, told me outside a farm-supply store in Winchester, a small town outside of Lexington. 'Why a Republican would want to buck him, I don't know.' Mark Wallingford, a physician in rural Mason County, is even more livid. 'I will not vote for Thomas Massie. And if he is unopposed, I just wouldn't vote,' he told me after a local GOP meeting. The clashes between Trump and the Kentucky trio are a sensitive topic among state GOP officials, many of whom are hesitant to take sides against either the popular president or their influential local leaders. 'I'm MAGA all the way, and I'm Massie all the way,' Ken Moellman Sr., a retiree and one of Massie's constituents in northern Kentucky, told me. He compared the Trump-Massie relationship to a marriage. 'Sometimes you disagree, but when you disagree, that doesn't mean you get divorced.' The twice-divorced president seems to be pining for a breakup, however. He has repeatedly called for Massie's defeat in a primary—'GET THIS 'BUM' OUT OF OFFICE, ASAP!!!' Trump posted on Monday—and two of his top allies have formed a Kentucky political action committee to recruit a GOP challenger in Massie's district. The group began running a 30-second ad last week urging voters to 'fire Thomas Massie.' Although Massie has aggressively raised money off the president's attacks, he professes to not care about the threat to his seat. Trump, Massie likes to boast, earned fewer votes in Kentucky's Fourth Congressional District than he did. 'I'm not worried about losing,' he told me last month in the Capitol. To outsiders, Kentucky's politics can be hard to grasp. In some respects, the state is no different than any other Republican stronghold. Outside of the urban centers of Louisville and Lexington, Kentucky is largely rural and conservative. The state has not backed a Democrat for president or for the U.S. Senate since the 1990s. All but one of Kentucky's six House members are Republican, as are the majorities in both chambers of its legislature. But even as the state has gone decisively for Trump the past three elections, it has twice elected a Democratic governor, Andy Beshear. And the pair of Republicans that voters have sent to the Senate, McConnell and Paul, are as different from one another as any two senators from the same party in the country. McConnell is the institutionalist: a Reaganite and a Kentucky power broker who is now one of the last members of the GOP's old guard still serving in Congress. Paul arrived in Washington as part of the Tea Party wave of 2010, having upset a McConnell-backed front-runner in the primary by campaigning as a spending hawk. Massie won election to the House two years later on the Tea Party banner. 'We've always been a bit all over the place in the candidates that we support,' Rick VanMeter, a strategist from Kentucky who has worked for several Republicans in the state, told me. Although McConnell and Paul vote with Trump more often than they cross him, the president lacks a loyalist in the state's most powerful offices. That will probably change after next year's election to fill McConnell's seat, which Republicans will be heavily favored to win. The two leading candidates, Representative Andy Barr and Kentucky's former attorney general Daniel Cameron, are each stressing their support for Trump's agenda. Another contender, Nate Morris—who has ties to Vice President J. D. Vance and Donald Trump Jr.—joined the race this week. None of them is likely to highlight their connection to McConnell, whose popularity among Kentucky Republicans has plummeted in the years since he steered Trump's tax cuts and the president's three Supreme Court nominees through the Senate. (In fact, McConnell has been America's least popular senator for more than four years, according to one metric.) McConnell blamed Trump for the Capitol riot on January 6 (although he voted to acquit him in the Senate's impeachment trial), and he endorsed Trump only reluctantly last year. Multiple falls and freezing spells have slowed the 83-year-old, contributing to his decision not to seek an eighth Senate term in 2026. As I traveled around Kentucky last week, a few Republicans hailed McConnell's past leadership and the billions in funding that he's secured for the state. But hardly anyone I spoke with was sad to see him go. 'I can't stand him. He's a traitor,' Don Reilly, a Trump backer and former president of the Boone County Business Association in northern Kentucky, told me. The conflict among Republicans has put Kentucky Democrats in the awkward position of rooting for Paul, Massie, and McConnell to hold the line against Trump, with the hope that their opposition could force him to retreat on tariffs or sink the president's megabill. Last week I found a group of Democrats demonstrating outside of McConnell's office, urging him to reject the GOP legislation that would slash Medicaid while extending Trump's first-term tax cuts and boosting spending on immigration enforcement and the Pentagon. They were unimpressed by McConnell's more recent criticism of Trump. 'He gets credit for that, but it's too little, too late,' Leah Netherland, a 69-year-old retiree, told me. 'He is in large part responsible for Trump.' Beshear, whose success in a deep-red state has attracted national notice, seems to be watching the GOP infighting with some bemusement. 'If Senator Paul, Senator McConnell, and I all say that tariffs are a bad idea, it's because they're a really bad idea,' the governor told me after a Juneteenth event in Lexington. Yet Beshear can only cheer them on so much. None of the Republicans battling Trump are centrists; Paul and Massie are opposing the president's bill because it doesn't cut spending deeply enough. 'The bill needs to die, but not for the reasons they're talking about,' Beshear said. The louder voices of discontent in Kentucky, however, are coming from Trump's base, which is heeding the president's call to ramp up pressure on his Republican critics. With McConnell retiring and Paul not up for reelection until 2028, the immediate target is Massie. Trump's backers in Washington and Kentucky are casting about for a serious challenger in Massie's district, and a few state legislators are considering the race, Republicans in the state told me. (One conservative, Niki Lee Ethington, a nurse and former parole officer, has launched a campaign, but she is not well known throughout the district.) Massie's base in northern Kentucky has a large libertarian contingent, and since his first reelection in 2014, he's never won fewer than 75 percent of votes in a primary. But a well-funded, Trump-backed campaign, should one emerge, would be something else entirely. In addition to motivating the president's frustrated base, a challenger could activate local Republicans who believe Massie's refusal to fight for the district's share of federal spending has hurt its bid for needed infrastructure projects. 'They're kind of over Massie's schtick,' VanMeter, the GOP strategist, told me. Gallatin County, which sits along the Ohio River about an hour's drive south of Cincinnati, is the second-smallest of Kentucky's 120 counties. It's one of 21 counties in Massie's congressional district, which stretches nearly 200 miles from the outskirts of Louisville to the state's eastern border. Last week, the quarterly meeting of Gallatin's Republican Party drew just eight attendees, who sat around folding tables at the public library in Warsaw, the county seat. The main order of business was a vote on whether to spend some of the roughly $1,800 that the committee had in its campaign account—a number nearly equivalent to Warsaw's population—on new signage for the party to display at festivals, county fairs, and other events. The bickering between Trump and Kentucky's GOP rebels did not come up, and perhaps that was for the best. Like many party organizations in the district, Gallatin's Republicans are divided over the Trump-Massie feud. The committee's vice chair, Wayne Rassman, told me he had grown frustrated with Massie's opposition to the president. 'He's not listening to the people in his district,' Rassman told me. 'I don't know what made him go off the deep end.' The party treasurer, Donna Terry, said that she used to be for Massie but no longer is. 'I'm a little fed up,' she told me. Both of them said they would probably back a primary challenger next year. The chair of Gallatin's GOP is Jim Kinman, a 51-year-old delivery specialist. He accepted the post reluctantly, explaining to me that the state party had told the county committee that it would be disbanded if it didn't elect a slate of officers. When I caught up with Kinman after the meeting, he lowered his voice before wading into the Trump-Massie fracas. He said that he had never gotten into the 'cultish' dynamic surrounding Trump, whom he did not support in 2016. 'Generally, he's done a good job,' Kinman said of the president. But, he added, 'when the rubber meets the road, I'm going to be with Thomas.' Kinman told me that his loyalty to Massie has caused consternation among his fellow Republicans in the area, but he wasn't budging. 'Thomas legitimately is the only person I trust more than myself,' Kinman said. Whereas many Kentucky Republicans want their representatives to back Trump unconditionally, Kinman said he admired Massie's adherence to his longtime principles. He compared him favorably to Paul, who is often aligned with Massie but has been a bit more open to compromise during the Trump era. (Kinman had nothing nice to say about McConnell, referring to him both as 'a snake' and 'the turtle.') 'We got plenty of people that are for rent,' Kinman said of politicians who too easily trade away their values. 'I'm glad that Thomas is not.' Massie was about to go bowling last weekend when Trump bombed Iran. With the House on recess, he was back in his district for an event with the Northern Kentucky Young Republicans, a group filled with his acolytes. The gathering was a relaxed affair—Massie nursed a Michelob Ultra and wore an untucked turquoise polo shirt—and represented a small show of force for his standing in the area. The organization has hosted other prominent Kentucky Republicans, including each of the major potential GOP contenders to replace McConnell in the Senate. But its president, T. J. Roberts, told me that Massie's event was the best attended. At 27, Roberts is the second-youngest state legislator in Kentucky history and one of several conservatives known as 'Massie's Nasties' for their loyalty to the seven-term representative—and for their occasional hardball campaign tactics. Like many at the bowling alley on Saturday night, Roberts said that he admires Massie and Trump with equal fervor. He told me that he didn't take the president's demand for a primary challenge seriously. 'President Trump is using this as a pressure technique against other members who may sway,' Roberts told me. 'It's a smart move. If I were in his shoes, I'd do the same thing.' As for Massie, Roberts said: 'He's inoculated from primaries.' Yet without impugning Trump, Roberts made sure to remind the crowd of around 80 people of Massie's MAGA credentials. 'There is no one who represents MAGA in Congress better than Thomas Massie,' Roberts said. 'He was MAGA before MAGA was a thing.' Massie began his speech by reminding the crowd of his overall support for Trump, but he tackled their disagreements head on, starting with the impending confrontation with Iran. Touting the resolution that he had introduced to block the president from ordering a unilateral military attack, Massie said, 'I have his respect, and he has mine, but he cannot engage us in a war without a vote of Congress.' The crowd applauded his stance. But unbeknownst to Massie, his argument was all but moot: Soon after he left the stage, Trump announced that U.S. warplanes had already struck Iran's nuclear sites. Like Trump, Massie is a storyteller who revels in sharing behind-the-scenes anecdotes that many politicians prefer either to keep private or to divulge without their names attached. Sass is a core part of his image, both in person and on social media, where he frequently uses the tagline #sassywithmassie. (Earlier this week when Vance wondered whether other vice presidents experienced 'as much excitement' as he has, Massie responded on X: 'Ask Mike Pence about his last month,' referring to January 6.) Read: Republicans still can't say no to Trump During his speech, Massie argued that Trump respected him 'because he knows I'm not a yes man' while also slyly mocking the president in ways that few Republicans dare to do in public. Massie described a House Republican conference meeting last month during which Trump droned on about him for so long that he had assumed the president was talking about someone else. At one point, Trump compared Massie with Paul. 'They're both from Kentucky, you can never get them to vote for anything, and they basically have the same hair,' Trump explained, according to Massie. 'Actually,' the president quickly added, 'I like Massie's hair better.' As the crowd at the bowling alley laughed, Massie quipped, 'Take the wins where you can get them!' Despite Massie's outward confidence about the prospect of a Trump-backed primary challenge, he has made some small moves that suggest a desire to declare a truce. He agreed to withdraw his war-powers resolution after Trump announced a cease-fire between Israel and Iran, at least temporarily abandoning the Democrats who planned to push it forward anyway. And although Massie voted against Trump's megabill when it passed the House last month, he insisted that he was open to supporting its final passage if the Senate makes changes to his liking. 'I'm a gettable vote!' he told me after his speech. (He explained his thinking this way to his supporters: 'I'll vote for a crap sandwich. I just want a pickle and two slices of bread.') I posed to Massie the question that had brought me to Kentucky in the first place: Why does a state that voted so strongly for Trump have such a disproportionate share of the president's GOP critics in high office? He replied by invoking Kentucky's divided status in the Civil War. 'We were a border state,' Massie said. 'We are independent in Kentucky, and I don't think you can take our vote for granted, whether it's representatives or constituents.' The coming months will test if that long-ago legacy still applies. Kentucky has clearly picked a side in the modern political wars, and its Republican voters must decide whether to force their remaining elected holdouts to join them.
