Politics | The Atlantic

The Party That Must Not Be Named

2026-10-23T07:00:00-04:00

For most of the past two decades, Ohio Democrats have hobbled home in defeat on Election Day, beaten and battered in a state that used to be a national bellwether. In 2024, Donald Trump ran up an 11-point margin, while Sherrod Brown lost his seat in the Senate. But earlier this month, I found Brown campaigning at Ohio State University, his red L.L.Bean fleece blending in with the students’ scarlet-and-gray apparel. It was the last day for Ohioans to register to vote.

“O-H!” Brown said. The students’ response came automatically: “I-O!” they screamed. Maybe they could try “O-H … I-vote,” Brown suggested with a smile. It didn’t quite catch on. After blowing a 20-point lead against Texas early in the college-football season, the Buckeyes have turned things around—and Democrats are clearly looking to borrow more than a chant from their playbook.

Beating a Republican Party that has dominated the state for the past two decades, they believe, requires speaking directly to voters’ frustrations. Brown, in particular, has focused his campaign on reminding everyone how terrible things are, and is betting that tapping into Ohioans’ anger—spurred by a combination of high prices, an unpopular war, and a flailing president—might just be enough to return to the Senate. Less than two weeks from Election Day, there are signs that the strategy may be working. Most polls show Brown and Amy Acton, the Democratic candidate for governor—a first-time politician and physician who served as director of the Ohio Department of Health during the first few months of the coronavirus pandemic—leading or tied with their GOP rivals.

At Ohio State, Brown’s cheery greeting was prelude to a bleak speech about the future that awaits young Ohioans. The 73-year-old warned that life would be much harder for these students than it was for him when he graduated (Yale, but he went on to earn two master’s degrees from Ohio State) five decades ago. “The system’s rigged,” he began, then listed all of the ways that young people are screwed: Corporations make more money than ever. Their CEOs earn hundreds of times more than the average worker. The dream of homeownership might be entirely out of reach for young Americans. Normal people, Brown kept repeating, just cannot get ahead anymore.

Brown was telling a group of ambitious students at the state’s top-ranked public university that they don’t have a future—or at least not the future they want. And they were captivated. Afterward, when Brown chatted with them individually, some looked like they were talking to a therapist.

Freshman Trent Carson told me he’s already afraid that he won’t be able to find a good job when he graduates. He also worries that his cousins, who are truck drivers, will be out of work if the price of diesel remains near record highs. Josie Speakman, the pink-haired College Democrats president who introduced Brown, voiced a similar pessimism. “It feels like we can't get ahead, despite working harder than ever,” she said. The system is broken, she said, but Brown is going to fix it.

Brown’s speech lacked rhetorical flourishes; he spoke to the students in his signature rasp, offering no major ideas beyond pledging to end the Iran war and get rid of tariffs. Barack Obama he is not, except that Brown is the only Democrat besides Obama to win statewide political office in Ohio since 2006. Brown’s project this year is not to fix Democrats’ tattered image in the state; in fact, Brown seems determined not to remind anyone that he’s a Democrat unless he absolutely has to. His campaign ads target the incumbent, Jon Husted, for taking money from Jeffrey Epstein’s benefactors and supporting AI data centers that raise Ohioans’ electric bills. They do not mention Brown’s party affiliation. Nor does his campaign website. “In large swaths of Ohio, and the country, the Democratic Party’s reputation has become toxic,” Brown wrote in The New Republic last year.

Not that Brown’s political identity is a secret. Husted, who was appointed to the Senate last year by Ohio Governor Mike DeWine after J. D. Vance became vice president, was in elementary school when Brown was first elected to the Ohio legislature. It was the same year Richard Nixon resigned the presidency.

Brown is following the same approach that gave Trump three consecutive victories in Ohio: lean into voters’ grievances and convince them that voting for him is a way to fight back against the rotten status quo. It doesn’t matter if Ohioans think that Democrats are lousy too, so long as they vote for this one candidate who just so happens to be a member of the party.

One Republican strategist told me that in Brown, a candidate who is well known and well liked, Republicans face a formidable opponent amid a terrible political environment for the party. “People obviously do not feel better economically,” the strategist, whose organization did not authorize him to speak publicly about campaign dynamics, said, “so they’re taking it out on us.”

In 2024, Brown was also leading in the polls just weeks before the election, and then lost the Senate seat he had held for nearly two decades to now-Senator Bernie Moreno. So what’s different this year? Brown’s answer is simple: Everything has gotten worse. Life got more expensive. Washington got more corrupt. And because he’s no longer an incumbent, he can somewhat more convincingly claim to be an outsider. “The system’s more rigged than it was,” Brown told me during an interview with a group of reporters after the Ohio State event. “My message hasn’t changed.”

Republicans have responded by attempting to both validate voters’ concerns and suggest that things aren’t as bad as they seem. Ohio Republican Party Chair Alex Triantafilou, a lawyer from the Cincinnati suburbs, is spending the final weeks of the campaign traveling the state in a rented white minivan. Gas prices now average $4.07 per gallon in Ohio, down from $4.48 a month ago, after the legislature approved a 90-day gas-tax holiday—a policy proposed by Acton that Republicans adopted and repackaged into a victory for her Republican competitor, Vivek Ramaswamy.

[Read: Vivek Ramaswamy’s appalling campaign ad]

“I think if there’s any part of the Iran war that poses an issue for voters, it might be with gas prices, but we’ve solved that here in Ohio,” Triantafilou told me this month at a coffee shop near Columbus. He had driven more than 100 miles from Cincinnati that morning for a couple of meetings and was about to turn around and head back. He said he doesn’t think Ohioans are going to vote on how much it costs to fill up their tanks and considers the issue of affordability to be overstated by the media. The stock market is up, he pointed out.

Husted made a similar argument in a pep talk earlier this month to conservative activists going out to canvass in Delaware County, on the northern fringes of Columbus. “We have the most jobs and the lowest unemployment rate in our history,” Husted told reporters before the canvassing event. “We made progress.” He sought to remind voters that inflation was worse a few years ago, when Joe Biden was president and Brown was in the Senate.

Husted is no MAGA warrior. When he spoke to supporters at a barbecue on a farm near Athens recently, he earnestly asked attendees to call loved ones daily until the election and remind them to vote. A former collegiate Division III defensive back, Husted once turned down an opportunity to coach college football, and he still looks like someone who’d rather be outside tossing a ball around. At a rally in Youngstown last week, Trump was captivated by Husted’s athletic past. “I looked at his ass,” Trump said with admiration, “and then I looked at his hands. Look at his hands. He’s got these, like, claws. And I got it, you are a great athlete.”

[Read: All the president’s hotties ]

It was Trump’s second time in Ohio in as many weeks. In a midterm election, when turnout tends to be lower, getting Trump’s biggest fans to go to the polls is the way to win, Ohio Republicans told me. They’re banking on that remaining true, despite the president’s broad unpopularity. “I understand the national environment sucks. In the other states, there are gonna be blue waves,” Michael Hartley, a Republican consultant in the state, told me. But he remains convinced that Ohio favors Republicans and that those Republicans listen to Trump: “If we turn our people out, we win.” But Husted’s choice to tether himself to the president does not guarantee success when 60 percent of Ohioans disapprove of Trump, up from 44 percent at the start of his current term.

Trump is not the only one with an image problem in Ohio. It’s not hard to find prominent Democrats willing—eager, actually—to criticize their own party. And though Democratic self-flagellation is nothing new, what’s different in 2026 is that bashing their own party might be a winning strategy for Democrats in the state.

Ohioans are not voting for Democrats “because they’re Democrats. They’re voting for them because we’re not Trump,” Tim Ryan, a former Democratic representative from the Youngstown area who lost a 2022 Senate race to J. D. Vance, told me. Allison Russo, a former minority leader in Ohio’s state house who is now running for secretary of state, says that the party’s organizing efforts in the state have been “terrible” and that the party’s brand is “crap.” But Russo, who still speaks with a southern drawl from her childhood in Mississippi, isn’t particularly beat up about that.

“I would argue the Republican brand is becoming just as toxic,” Russo told me when we met in Upper Arlington, the Columbus suburb where she lives. She thinks she might win, which surprises even her. “What I thought my chances were at the beginning versus where we are now has shifted dramatically,” she said. A Democrat has not been elected Ohio secretary of state in 20 years.

A decade ago, as Trump barreled toward his first term in the White House, then–First Lady Michelle Obama offered Democrats some advice on how to respond to his divisive brand of politics. It was, she said at the 2016 Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, the Obamas’ family motto, a mantra of sorts that she and her husband would repeat to their young daughters as they grew up in the public eye: “When they go low, we go high.” Democrats grabbed onto the slogan, but the Obamas’ strategy of earnest, upbeat politicking did not help the party defeat Trump. In Ohio a decade later, Brown’s campaign all but repudiates the approach. When he tried to go high in the past, he “was shouted down by the ugly,” Diane Valentino, an elementary-school teacher in Delaware County, told me on the first day of early voting. She had arrived at the Delaware County Board of Elections before doors opened at 8 a.m., and stood with a small group of activists who were passing out Democratic flyers and sample ballots from the back of someone’s car. In this year’s election, Valentino felt, Brown had no choice but to “call out the darkness” of Ohio Republicans. “He didn’t strike first, but he had to step up,” Valentino said.

[Read: Jon Ossoff is doing something different]

After Brown cast his ballot that day in Columbus, he stopped to talk with a group of reporters. I asked him whether his campaign has a positive message to voters, or if tapping into frustration is the driving force heading into the final weeks of the campaign. “The positive message for my campaign,” Brown said, is, “I don’t see politics as left or right. I see it as whose side you’re on.” Not a Democrat—just on your side.

Obama himself is the one massive exception to the “don’t remind people you’re a Democrat” strategy. This weekend, the former president will make his first visit to Ohio since 2018, the last time Brown won. When Obama announced that he would speak at a rally with Brown and Acton in Cleveland, he said that he wants to elect “Democrats up and down the ballot.” That includes Brown—just don’t expect him to say so.

A Congressional District Where the Iran War Is Personal

2026-10-22T14:18:03-04:00

John Quillin thought America’s Middle Eastern wars were safely in the past. He spent two decades in the Navy, enlisting not long before the September 11 attacks and retiring as a chief petty officer about 18 months after the United States withdrew from Afghanistan. “Now we’re right back in it,” he told me, “and it’s taking a huge toll on everybody.”

I met Quillin as he handed out Democratic sample ballots outside an early-voting location in Chesapeake, Virginia. He is one of more than 80,000 veterans—along with more than 30,000 active-duty and reserve personnel—who live in Virginia’s Second Congressional District, where the debate over the Iran war is about far more than rising gas prices. The district wraps around Naval Station Norfolk, home of the Navy’s Fleet Forces Command. Since 2008, the seat has toggled between the major parties four times, and the results have mirrored overall House control. Polls show a tight race with money pouring in from both sides.

Both Jen Kiggans, the Republican incumbent, and Elaine Luria, the Democratic challenger, are veterans who have centered their campaigns on the military, but in very different ways. Luria, a former Navy commander, is telling voters that the conflict in Iran has needlessly weakened the military and is endangering strategic goals in other parts of the world. Iran is a war of choice, she argues, that is taking a toll on service members through extended deployments, even as costs balloon and the timeline for bringing it to a close keeps shifting. People are worried about their friends and family members on active duty, she told me, and are “concerned about the fact that we are running the fleet into the ground.”

Kiggans, a former naval-helicopter pilot, presents herself as a candidate who can work with the opposing party, and she has broken with the administration to champion an offshore wind development. But she is putting no distance between herself and Trump on the war, echoing his insistence that America must prevent Iran from having a nuclear weapon. Kiggans told the Associated Press last week that Luria has “chosen the side of Iran” and that “it’s like the Democrats are now siding with the Iranians and not standing with our military.”

Many Republican voters in the district told me they agree with her support for Trump’s war, and are willing to endure temporary hardships if it means long-term success. Lance Lesher, a Navy veteran and the chairman of the Republican Party of Virginia Beach, told me that Iran has been at war with the United States since the country’s 1979 revolution—and that Trump was right to act when he did.

“I mean, high prices for gasoline—no one likes that,” the 59-year-old Lesher told me. “I think most people, though, at least most older people, have the perspective—is it worth it? Is it worth paying $5 a gallon for gasoline for six months for Iran to not have a nuclear weapon?”

Luria is wagering that undecided voters who are now paying more to fill their gas tanks and grocery carts won’t agree with that premise. At a meet and greet in Suffolk, Elisha Harris, a pioneering local football coach, started a call-and-response that summed up Luria’s pitch: “Gas was three-fifty. Now it’s over four. Diesel hit a record. We can’t take much more. Every fill-up’s a drain—”

“It ain’t been the same, without Elaine!” the crowd responded.

[Read: Trump is considering a plan to strike Iran before the midterms]

Luria was first elected in 2018, turning the district blue amid an anti-Trump wave. She held the seat two years later, but Kiggans then beat her by three points in 2022 after tying the Democrat to the Biden administration’s disastrous withdrawal from Afghanistan. Luria is now hoping to return the favor, by capitalizing on the unpopularity of Trump’s foreign policy.

Kiggans sits on the House Armed Services Committee, which has not held a public hearing on the Iran war since May 19. Calls for greater House oversight surged this spring amid reports of deteriorating conditions aboard aircraft carriers, including the Norfolk-based USS Gerald Ford, which took part in the opening days of the conflict. The carrier returned to Virginia in May after an 11-month deployment that was beset by plumbing issues and a fire that left hundreds of sailors without a place to sleep. When asked in March about the ship’s reported maintenance issues, Kiggans told a local news station that she was concerned about them, but that “this is not Carnival Cruise—this is the U.S. Navy.” It’s a line Luria repeats often, claiming that Kiggans has failed to provide oversight as the war degrades military readiness and needlessly endangers lives.

“I know the number of veterans in this room who have served in uniform, like I have. And we have our sailors deploying in harm’s way,” Luria told the crowd in Suffolk. “The lack of sensitivity and compassion, her inability, on the Armed Services Committee, to stand up and ask tough questions of our military leadership—I mean, the silence is deafening.”

The idea that Congress has abdicated oversight of the military repeatedly came up in my conversations with Democratic voters across the district. Many said that they were proud of their service and hold the military in the highest regard, but that patriotism also means criticizing the country and pointing out its mistakes. Mike Carter, who spent years flying F/A-18 Super Hornets, told me he’d come to the Luria event because he worried that the military and country were losing global respect. Marsha Simmons, who cast an early ballot for Luria, told me that her husband served in the Navy, and she worried that today’s Department of Defense was not taking national security seriously enough. Donna Grieco said that she loved her eight years working as a Navy nurse, and that the experience made her especially concerned about the long deployments sailors are enduring. “I don’t agree with the war,” she told me. “And I feel like the demands we are putting on our sailors—it’s not necessary.”

Not every veteran sees it that way. Over Mike Cassidy’s 22-year Navy career, he sailed the Baltic Sea and helped fight ISIS. He was deployed five times to the Persian Gulf. Cassidy’s service convinced him that American adversaries such as Iran need to be confronted. “I know what we’ve been up against in that part of the world,” he told me at a Republican Party barbecue. “I can tell you that we’re doing the right thing.”

[Read: Trump is preparing for a long war]

At 9 a.m. on a Saturday, the Lockside Bar and Grill in Chesapeake was packed with people decked out in glittery hats and red, white, and blue. Kiggans stood at a podium flanked by two American flags. “My oldest just had his first flight in an F/A-18 this week!” she announced. People whooped. “So many of us have family members that serve, and have kids that we’re leaving this great country to,” she went on. “It is the greatest country in the world. We’ve got to keep it that way.”

At times, the rally seemed less about Kiggans than about Trump. His core supporters cheered when Representative Jim Jordan of Ohio took the stage and recited a list of MAGA world’s greatest hits: the Steele dossier, Jack Smith, Fani Willis. “Thanks for helping the president,” Jordan said to applause. “Talk about someone doing what he said he would do.”

Kiggans has voted six times against resolutions that would have directed Trump to end the war with Iran. She declined an interview request, but in April, she said on a conservative talk-radio show that she “couldn’t be a stauncher supporter” of military action against Iran. When I asked the campaign whether she still held that position, Kiggans said in a statement that she wants the war to end quickly, but “Iran has been an enemy of the United States for decades and has been the sponsor of terrorism and terrorists around the world who have killed or injured thousands of Americans. Iran can never be allowed to obtain a nuclear weapon.”

The race will likely hinge on a small number of voters who have not yet made up their mind. Kiggans knows this and has avoided uncomfortable questions about how the war is going. At an event in Virginia Beach this month with U.S. Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Kiggans was asked by a reporter if the war has had an impact on her campaign. A staff member quickly cut in: “We’re not going to talk about that.”

*Illustration sources: Peter Casey / The Virginian-Pilot / Tribune News Service / Getty; Nathan Howard / Getty; AFP / Getty; Atta Kenare / AFP / Getty.

What the U.S. Is Really Doing in Venezuela

2026-10-22T07:00:00-04:00

Photographs by Lynsey Addario

I.

We drifted past abandoned drilling platforms, ghostly remnants of better days. Cormorants perched on the metal bars of broken oil rigs, drying their wings in the sun. When we reached a swirling, brown-green oil slick, Carlos slowed his motor. Raw oil could damage the engine, he said, and we’d already had to return to shore once that day to swap boats. We floated for a bit. Carlos, who makes his living as a fisherman on Lake Maracaibo, pointed out some surface bubbles, evidence of a leaky pipeline beneath the water. There was a strong smell of gas. He lit a cigarette anyway and laughed.

That morning, Carlos and his team had caught about 30 pounds of fish in the lake, a brackish estuary where oil was discovered more than a century ago. The subsequent boom built the cities of Caracas and Maracaibo, three generations of wealth, and four decades of democracy. A century later, tens of billions of barrels’ worth of reserves remain beneath the water. Some of them might now be controlled by the American government.

They will not be easy to extract. After the boom came the bust, at first slowly and then very fast. Hugo Chávez, who ruled the country as a leftist authoritarian from 1999 to 2013, and then Nicolás Maduro, the autocrat who succeeded Chávez and ran the country until he was removed by an American military operation early this year, undermined the industry, chasing away engineers and impoverishing workers. Even as they said they were building “Bolivarian socialism,” they removed benefits, lowered salaries, and created a capricious, repressive regime. Millions of people left the country.

Most American and European companies left too. The Russian and Chinese companies that arrived to replace them invested very little. Lake Maracaibo, the largest body of water in South America, also became one of the largest environmental disasters in South America. Two decades of neglect produced leaks, spills, poisoned water, and the ghostly drilling platforms I saw from the fishing boat. Fishermen sometimes rinse their crabs and shrimp with gasoline to remove the crude oil. All of their nets turn brown.

Billions of dollars of investment will be needed to remediate the site and recover more oil. In the meantime, people who live around the lake, like millions of other Venezuelans, work hard and earn very little. Their fish have to be sold immediately, because electricity is unpredictable and freezers are thus unreliable. Rapid inflation—20 percent in July, an annualized rate of 783 percent—has made everything unaffordable. In a Caracas market, I found prices and exchange rates written on whiteboards, because they change every day.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

A collapsed high-voltage transmission tower in Lake Maracaibo, amid other deteriorating oil and electrical infrastructure

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Fishermen and their families live along the polluted shores of the lake, the largest body of water in South America—and one of the continent’s largest environmental disasters.

The state is absent, or indifferent. Carlos pointed to a scar on his leg that he said was an old gunshot wound, the souvenir of an assault by one of the pirates who control the lake: “If you don’t pay them, they kill you and take your boat.” The coast guard is supposed to patrol the lake, he said, but it is rarely there.

The oil industry offers few well-paying jobs. At a lakeside town, its beaches blackened by oil, Francisco, a former boat mechanic at the state oil company⁠—Petróleos de Venezuela, or PDVSA—told me he had quit because he got tired of not having the right tools and spare parts. One of Francisco’s neighbors, Iliana, told me her husband had quit PDVSA too, after his salary plummeted from $50 a day to just a few cents a day. He now works for a Russian company that pays about $35 a day, but he has to spend most nights sleeping on the drilling platform.

From a great distance—Washington, say, or Mar-a-Lago⁠—Venezuela is sometimes described as a bonanza for America, a trove of riches. On January 3, the day that the U.S. military captured Maduro, Donald Trump promised that it would be. “We’ll run it properly; we’ll run it professionally,” he said at a press conference that day. “We’ll have the greatest oil companies in the world going and invest billions and billions of dollars, and take out money, use that money in Venezuela, and the biggest beneficiary are gonna be the people of Venezuela.” But at that same press conference, he also announced that he would be working with a new president: Delcy Rodríguez, Maduro’s deputy and a leading member of the regime that had caused the destruction in the first place. He dismissed the country’s opposition leader, María Corina Machado—who was the true winner of Venezuela’s 2024 presidential election—as a “nice woman” who “doesn’t have the respect within the country.”

In Venezuela, this language sounded jarring. Since then, it has become even more confusing, because it is so at odds with reality. When I asked people living right next to some of Venezuela’s largest oil fields whether Rodríguez had made any difference to the industry or the country, they laughed or sneered. Iliana told me, “People thought that things would change, but in reality nothing changed.” José, another fisherman who used to work for PDVSA, had a darker view: “The gringos came to rob everything—the oil, the minerals. We are rich in everything, but here, we don’t have anything.” Later, a local oil engineer told me that none of the American agreements matters anyway, because the Venezuelan government is illegitimate and so “nothing is legal.”

These opinions are widely shared. Perhaps surprisingly, given the disparate worlds they inhabit, the views of Maracaibo fishermen are not far from those of Ricardo Hausmann, a Harvard economist who served decades ago in a very different Venezuelan government, one that opened the country’s natural resources to foreign investment through a transparent process. In the 1990s, PDVSA explained to legislators, foreign companies, and the public what it was doing. Contracts were made public. Money produced by oil investments long funded social programs, including scholarships to study at American universities. These produced warm feelings toward America among educated Venezuelans that outlasted years of Chavista anti-gringo propaganda.

The political and business relationship now being forged between America and Venezuela is completely different. It’s not a relationship of two equals, obviously. But nor is it exactly an occupation. Some have compared it to the Anglo-Persian oil deal of the early 20th century, or the 1905 treaty that gave the U.S. government control over the customs service of the Dominican Republic, but neither of those analogies is quite apt. Searching for a model or a reference point, I asked Hausmann how he would describe it. “A coalition of two kleptocracies,” he said.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Clauimar Aguiar lives beside an oil field in Cabimas, Venezuela, where vast petroleum reserves coexist with poverty and failing infrastructure.

II.

What happens to Venezuelan oil when it is pumped out of the ground? Where does the money go afterward? And how did that change following Trump’s announcement, on August 28, of “THE BIGGEST OIL DEAL IN WORLD HISTORY”? None of these questions has a simple answer. Over several days in Caracas and Madrid (where much of the Venezuelan opposition currently resides), and in telephone calls to Boston and Houston, I asked six people—two formerly in the oil industry, two still in the industry, and two in academia—to explain the details. All of them struggled to do so. One of them, an industry executive in Caracas who would speak only off the record, covered four pages of my notebook in diagrams and drawings, taking more than an hour and a half to explain how the previous legal system had worked, how a hydrocarbon law had been rewritten, how the new deals were unfolding and the old deals were being revised.

Perhaps the complexity is the point: Maybe the situation is hard to understand because neither the Rodríguez regime nor the Trump administration really wants anyone to understand it. Hausmann told me the Venezuelan constitution says that “anything of national interest should be approved by parliament, by the National Assembly. They haven’t done that, and so right now they are protecting themselves through obscurity.”

Despite the obfuscation, some of what Trump says is true: The U.S. really is controlling the sale of “millions and millions of barrels of oil” in Venezuela, as well as the sale of gold and other minerals. As a condition of lifting the economic sanctions that the U.S. had previously imposed on the country, all royalties and taxes from licensed companies are deposited into a special account originally set up in Qatar and later moved to Citibank. Industry analysts believe that more than $13 billion worth of oil has been sold since January, but that number is speculative. At a congressional hearing on September 15, Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent refused to confirm it. Repeated requests from congressional Democrats for more information have also received inadequate responses.

Some of the funds have been returned to the Venezuelan government. At another congressional hearing, a State Department official told legislators that money was being provided to pay “the salaries of government workers in Venezuela,” among other things. Hard currency is also made available to Venezuelan banks. But although there is no evidence that money is being stolen or siphoned off to pay for other Trump-administration projects, there is also no evidence that it is not being stolen or siphoned off. Ostensibly, the accounting firm KPMG is auditing the process, but despite requests from Democrats in Congress, an audit was not released by the October 8 deadline. In his congressional appearance, Bessent did not say if or when it would be.

Opacity has consequences. Partly thanks to this system, the major new investments necessary for a real recovery have been slow in coming. The old oil fields I saw near Maracaibo, as well as the untouched reserves in the Orinoco River belt, will require billions of dollars and very long time horizons to develop or redevelop. Any company planning such a project needs to believe that its contracts, and the political and social stability required to preserve them, will last for a decade or more. Francisco Monaldi, an oil-industry analyst at Rice University, told me that although the new hydrocarbon law, passed on January 29 under American pressure, is an improvement, it still affords Venezuela’s Ministry of Oil the flexibility “to give you the best deal in Latin America, or the worst”—and then to change the terms of that deal later if it chooses. No wonder the current situation—an unpopular, illegitimate Venezuelan president propped up by an unpredictable and term-limited U.S. president—makes big companies nervous.

If the oil companies would prefer an elected Venezuelan president and a stable political system, this is not a matter of benign, high-minded principle. Oil executives “are not in the business of charity; these are not nuns,” Monaldi said. “But these guys know when things are being done in a way that will eventually create trouble for them.” With the exception of Chevron, which remained in Venezuela throughout the Chávez-Maduro era and is still reinvesting the revenues it earns in the country (although nothing more), most large companies have merely sent envoys to Caracas, signed memorandums of understanding, and returned home. Gold refiners are equally ambivalent about processing the Venezuelan gold bars that a Trump-friendly company removed from the country, according to The New York Times, because the gold was likely mined by criminal organizations and the industry has strict rules about proof of origin.

Trump’s “biggest oil deal in world history” seems to have been designed to encourage American companies to start drilling faster and, more important for him, to distract from the oil crisis created by his war in Iran. But the announcement may have had the opposite effect because the deal, at least as it has been described in public, is even more opaque than the existing arrangement, and is even more unpopular. After the announcement, thousands of people left angry messages on the U.S. embassy’s social-media pages, reflecting both fury and surprise. And no wonder: The U.S. administration’s main business partner is a company called North American Blue Energy Partners (NABEP), whose notorious CEO, Alejandro Betancourt, is a household name in Venezuela. Betancourt has been investigated for money laundering in multiple countries, including the United States, Switzerland, and Spain. (He has previously denied wrongdoing and has never been charged with a crime.) After being arrested at London’s Charing Cross Station on a Swiss warrant in November 2025, he was stuck in England for more than six months while the extradition case proceeded. Spanish police searched his estate outside Madrid as recently as August 28. The Washington Post reported that the Trump administration pressured Swiss officials to halt an investigation and lift an extradition request, seemingly in order to allow Betancourt to travel to the U.S. and Venezuela and close the deal.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Venezuelans play checkers by flashlight during a rolling blackout in Maracaibo. Although the region sits atop some of the country’s largest oil and gas reserves, many residents spend much of the day without electricity.

Inside the country, Betancourt is infamous for bungling an upgrade of the electricity grid, overcharging for used, poor-quality equipment and enriching himself in the process. People openly blame him for blackouts and power cuts that continue to this day. An opposition leader told me that he’d been hearing Betancourt’s name cited as an example of regime corruption since he was a teenager. The fishermen in Lake Maracaibo knew exactly who he was, and everyone else I met did too. An analyst in Madrid told me that everything he thought he understood about U.S. intentions in Venezuela had been upended by the deal with Betancourt.

Like the system of oil payments, the deal with Betancourt is also suspiciously difficult to describe. In essence, the Venezuelan government has allocated 17 oil fields to NABEP, a company originally created with an American businessman, Harry Sargeant. According to the White House, the Pentagon’s Office of Strategic Capital has acquired not ownership but “a 35% equity stake in its corporate parent”; others explained that the acquisition is a share in a contract, but this is again uncertain. The State Department seems to get the right to buy 20 percent of NABEP’s oil at production cost—whatever that means—as well as the first right of refusal on the other 80 percent. Some analysts told me they fear that the Rodríguez regime, to stay in power, will sell its oil below market prices.

No money was exchanged, and none has been invested. The Pentagon and NABEP are now responsible for attracting people who actually know how to drill oil to Venezuela—including to places without roads or infrastructure of any kind. I asked several oil analysts and economists, inside and outside the country, if the Trump administration and Betancourt could simply give drilling contracts to their respective friend groups in America and Venezuela. They all said yes.

A few people did try to see a glass half full. If more oil is pumped, then at least some money will eventually reach people, for example, which is better than no money. “It’s a process,” said Enrique Novoa, the former president of the Venezuelan Petroleum Chamber. “Tomorrow we hope to work a little bit better than today.” But even among those trying to look favorably on the deal, everyone I met was either surprised or confused that the United States—a longtime critic of the Marxist language and statist practices of the Chávez and Maduro regimes—had so quickly and enthusiastically embraced the corrupt habits, and the corrupt personnel, of the Chavista elite.

At the end of the day I spent floating through the postapocalyptic landscape of Lake Maracaibo, I met Juan Pablo Guanipa, one of the best-known opposition leaders in Venezuela. Guanipa, who lives in Maracaibo, was released in February after eight months in prison. He was detained on the street the next day, placed under house arrest, and then released again. He is still followed by the Venezuelan security service wherever he goes. Sitting in a room filled with books, we talked about the oil deal, the poor economy, the rising frustrations of Venezuelans.

I asked him whether he found the new union between Americans and Chavistas peculiar. Of course he did, he told me. Most perplexing to him, it seemed, was the absence of Yankee pragmatism, the most basic thing Venezuelans expected of Americans. At the very least, American capitalists should know about the rule of law. “I never thought we would reach a moment when we would have to convince the United States of the obvious—that Venezuela needs a legitimate government, that we need elections, and that we need change.”

III.

There is a straightforward way for Venezuela to acquire a legitimate government, one that would reassure both oil companies and ordinary people that a stable political and social order will endure: The regime could hold an election or a referendum, and let people choose the next president.

The U.S. administration, which not only controls Venezuela’s most important sources of income but also holds the threat of further U.S. military action over the heads of Maduro’s former henchmen, could help make this happen. Indeed, Secretary of State Marco Rubio has repeatedly said that it will. He has described a three-stage process: stabilization, recovery, and transition. With American encouragement, the regime and a part of the opposition—members of the last legislature recognized as legitimate, elected in 2015—have begun transition negotiations. Several people involved told me that although slow, the negotiations have been productive. In the first round, in August, discussions focused on reforming the supreme court, which slavishly followed the demands of the Maduro government, and which must be independent to ensure that the regime does not refuse to recognize an election result, as it has done in the past.

Unfortunately, many still aren’t convinced that the transition is real. In large part, this is because Trump’s description of Venezuela—a country where he says people are “really happy” and “dancing in the streets”—differs so dramatically from the reality they can see. But it’s also because Trump seems so enthusiastic about a status quo that includes Betancourt, Rodríguez, and a host of other figures from the past. A few days after meeting with Rodríguez on the sidelines of the United Nations General Assembly, he described her as “very nice, very terrific,” without naming a date for elections. On September 2, when a reporter asked him about Venezuelan elections, Trump said, “I just don’t think they’re ready yet. You know, it’s very new.”

Is democracy in Venezuela “new”? Are Venezuelans “not ready”? This language sounds just as strange and discordant to Venezuelans as the talk of great wealth supposedly flowing in their direction. After all, they did have a presidential election, and not that long ago. In July 2024, when Rodríguez was the vice president, Maduro was the regime’s candidate. He lost decisively, even after stacking the cards in his favor. In the run-up to the vote, his regime disqualified María Corina Machado, who had been selected in a national primary, a decision she called “judicial criminality.” They also nixed her first-choice substitute before finally allowing Edmundo González, a retired diplomat, to run as her surrogate. Then they harassed his supporters, used state media to insult and demean them, and even arrested them for fake crimes.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Venezuelan security forces form a barricade on the streets leading to Miraflores, the presidential palace in Caracas, as anti-government protesters demand the release of political prisoners. More than 320 remained incarcerated as of early October.

González won a landslide victory anyway, and the opposition could prove it. Anticipating that the regime might try to falsify the results, Machado and her team mobilized more than 600,000 volunteers to monitor polling stations and report irregularities using secure messaging apps. They collected and scanned the tally sheets produced by each voting machine, and uploaded them to a secure website, sometimes at great personal risk. In Antímano and La Vega, two barrios in western Caracas, I met community activists who regaled me with stories of that campaign. I was told of women who hid tally sheets in their underwear, of a man who stashed one underneath his toupee, of others who dressed as Maduro supporters to avoid being searched at the doors of polling stations. One local community leader told me that his 8-year-old son had gone around to polling stations on his bicycle and collected the printouts, knowing no one would suspect a child. Maybe Trump is “not ready” for democracy, but I met people in Antímano and La Vega who have fought for it longer and harder than most Americans.

The regime never published its own evidence. Instead, it declared victory and launched one of the most brutal repression campaigns in the country’s history. Security and paramilitary forces fanned out across the country, arresting thousands of people and killing dozens. Independent organizations, including humanitarian groups, were effectively banned.

If Venezuelans aren’t convinced that their country is making progress toward democracy, it’s also because the apparatus that carried out this wave of repression is still in place. Numbers differ, depending on who counts as a political prisoner, but as of early October, 920 to 1,110 of them have been released since January, while more than 320 remain incarcerated. I met some of their relatives, camped outside the U.S. embassy because they had given up on their own government and hoped that the Americans would help them. “Marco Rubio says there are no political prisoners,” one of them told me. “But the political prisoners are still behind bars.” As of early September, no one from the U.S. delegation had acknowledged or interacted with the families. These kinds of protesters still face risks too: In the second week of September, a man who had joined a march organized by the prisoners’ families was arrested, in public view, by men without uniforms.

Even among the political prisoners who have been released, hundreds are still, like Juan Pablo Guanipa, constantly followed, or else forced to report regularly at a courthouse, as if the regime were reminding them that they are only temporarily free. Perkins Rocha, a lawyer who was one of the opposition campaign’s representatives before the electoral council in 2024, is still under house arrest. Seized off the street a month after the election, Rocha, a bespectacled scholar of constitutional law, was charged with terrorism, treason, criminal association, incitement to hatred, and conspiracy. He was taken to the country’s most notorious prison, El Helicoide, where he spent two weeks in handcuffs, his head sometimes covered by a hood. After that, he spent many months in concrete rooms with no windows, sometimes shared by up to 20 people. Since his release in February, he has remained at home with an ankle bracelet, which he jokes is like “prison but with sunlight.” To visit him in his Caracas apartment, I had to check in with the policemen who stand in the lobby of his building and beside the elevator outside his front door. One of them took my name and wrote it on his hand.

But the most important reason Venezuelans doubt the prospects of a democratic transition is the long absence of Machado, the opposition leader. Machado went into hiding after the election, at an unknown location inside Venezuela. In December 2025, she finally escaped the country, taking a fishing boat to Curaçao, the Dutch island territory off the coast of Venezuela, before flying to Norway to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

A protester holds a sign that says “Come back already Mari!”—a reference to the opposition leader, María Corina Machado.

In January of this year, Machado visited Trump at the White House, and she made what seemed to be a bid to win his favor, presenting him with her Nobel medal in appreciation of his “unique commitment” to Venezuelan freedom. But if she hoped that this would persuade him to throw American power behind her and the country’s democratic opposition, that doesn’t seem to have worked: Nearly a year later, Trump has not proposed a date for an election and Machado has remained stuck abroad, first in Washington, D.C., then in Panama.

Initially, the U.S. administration advised her not to go back: Her safety could not be guaranteed. Later, her attempts to return were blocked, and not only by the Rodríguez regime. Rubio did explicitly say—albeit in a Spanish-language interview, which Venezuelans would understand but his boss would not—that Machado has “every right to enter her country whenever she wants to return.” But private planes she has chartered have been refused landing rights, even by Curaçao and Aruba, another Dutch territory. A boat she hired mysteriously developed “engine trouble.” A commercial airline would not let her board.

Multiple people in Caracas told me that U.S. diplomats in the city describe Machado as a “problem.” Indeed, if the Trump administration’s most important goal is to cement oil deals with corrupt figures linked to Rodríguez, then perhaps she is. Machado has been clearer than others about the need to hold the regime accountable for past crimes. She has long argued that private companies should play a bigger role in the Venezuelan economy, a position that, ironically, puts her at odds with those in the U.S. administration who want to work with the Venezuelan state to extract resources.

I spoke with her while she was in Panama in early September, and she told me that her main concern, other than returning home, is that too many people, Americans included, do not “understand at all what is going on in Venezuela. Everything I hear is about conventional formulas for transition that take into account everyone’s interests and opinions except the people’s, as if the people did not matter.”

Both in Caracas and in Washington, there are clearly actors who aren’t that interested in “the people” or what they want. But if the U.S. government wants to carry out a transition without Machado, the attempt will backfire. If Betancourt is the country’s most famous symbol of past misrule and corruption, Machado remains the most famous symbol of a democratic future. Without her, no election will be legitimate, and legitimacy is a necessary part of ending the Venezuelan crisis. “There are 1.1 million Venezuelans living in the United States, and 65 percent are willing to come back,” Machado told me. “But they are not going to do it while the same regime that expelled them in the first place is still in power.” Legitimacy is required for the construction of a Venezuelan military that can cooperate with the U.S. in the fight against criminal networks in the region, instead of being part of them. And again, legitimacy is the missing ingredient in oil-market reform, the insurance that companies need before they will make long-term investments.

Even if Machado returns (as perhaps she will have done by the time you are reading this article), nobody imagines that the country’s path will be straightforward. In a busy open-plan office, crowded with people talking over small plastic cups of black coffee, I met Henry Alviárez, the national coordinator of Vente, Machado’s political party. Alviárez told me that after he was released from prison in February, Vente had to “rebuild everything—regroup, recover the organization, and recover our direction.” Vente started with 55,000 people, Alviárez said, and was up to 150,000 in September: “We now have structures throughout the country and in all municipalities, and according to the polls, we are the leading party in Venezuela.” It is planning to launch a national debate—using online platforms, social media, and town halls—about what Machado calls a “grand national agreement” to amend the constitution, the educational system, the health-care system, and more. Vente isn’t asking for an immediate election. But the party’s leaders at least want to know when one will take place so that they can plan.

Some do believe they should wait: wait for the influence of the Rodríguez regime to wane further; wait for the Trump administration to lose power; wait for the congressional Democrats and the Republicans who support Venezuelan democracy to take action; wait for more oil to start flowing. There are risks to a transition, after all. No one can be sure when the economy will start growing again, and a new government could be blamed if it doesn’t. But if waiting seemed like a good strategy six months ago, the risks are increasing quickly. Everything here looks normal, Alviárez said, gesturing at the people drinking coffee. But appearances of normality are deceptive: “There is a feeling of exhaustion and a desire for change that can only be channeled through a clear leadership and a clear objective. It can only be resolved if people finally have a date for elections. That could prevent a social explosion.”

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Oil pollution is so pervasive in Lake Maracaibo that fishermen sometimes rinse their catch with gasoline to remove the crude oil.

Some people, he told me, without naming names, “have said that María Corina is coming to destabilize the country. No. She is coming to channel that anger and conduct it toward a civic, peaceful process: an election.” After fighting Chavistas and their Russian, Iranian, and Cuban allies for so long, nobody in Venezuela’s historically pro-American democratic opposition ever expected a U.S. administration to stand in their way. But if it does, they are preparing to fight that obstacle too.

IV.

On June 24, two earthquakes shook Caracas, the seaside city of La Guaira, and several smaller towns along the coast. Suddenly, the risks of waiting became clear.

Within minutes of the quakes, several large apartment buildings collapsed, including a public-housing complex built by the Chávez regime for victims of a 1999 mudslide. Tens of thousands of other buildings were damaged. At least 6,500 people died (the full number is still unknown), more than 16,800 were injured, and about 17,000 became homeless.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

A 2-year-old child bathes outside her family’s tent at a camp for people displaced by the earthquakes, which left more than 17,000 Venezuelans homeless.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Two sisters, both sick with chickenpox, live in a makeshift shelter at a beachside camp for displaced people. Heavy rains flooded the shelter the night before.

Some governments, even some authoritarian governments, rally during a crisis. In the face of this tragedy, the Venezuelan regime froze. Rodríguez has enough police officers to guard Perkins Rocha’s elevator. But she did not have enough soldiers, police, or rescue workers to dig Venezuelans out of the rubble, to offer people medical help and food, or to find homes for them in the days that followed.

I visited La Guaira, the city most badly affected, the week before school was scheduled to begin. No one I met in the refugee camps knew where their children were supposed to go, or whether studies would resume at all this year. One local school had been taken over by refugees who had no intention of relinquishing it, because they still had nowhere else to live. On the site of the collapsed public-housing complex, where bulldozers had finally arrived to take away the rubble, I met Ellie Solano, a bereaved mother who asked the men with machines to leave one part of the debris untouched, because she knew it lay on top of a sports field where her son had been playing. Two months after the disaster, she was searching for his corpse, digging in the early mornings and in the evenings, when it wasn’t too hot.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Volunteers and relatives dig through rubble in search of the bodies of missing loved ones after back-to-back earthquakes flattened entire neighborhoods.

Over the course of a day in La Guaira, I asked everyone I met how long it had taken for a government official to offer help after the earthquake. Some said four days. Some said five. Some thought it had been more. “We didn’t see policemen. No army, no nothing,” one woman told me. “It was people helping people, neighbors helping neighbors, and like that, many, many days.”

It still is. Just as grassroots movements emerged in Ukraine to support the army after the 2022 Russian invasion, many different kinds of voluntary organizations suddenly appeared in La Guaira after the earthquakes. Some, like Alimenta la Solidaridad, a charity founded a decade ago, had deep roots in the community already. Before 2024, Alimenta had more than 200 soup kitchens around the country. After the election, the regime restricted the activity of independent organizations and Alimenta had to shut down the kitchens. But the group revived itself after the earthquakes, reasoning that the situation had changed and, as Juan Andrés Saavedra, one of the group’s leaders, told me, “the government didn’t exist.” Saavedra now organizes teams of volunteers who bring food every day to several sites, including the refugee camp inside the school.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Skarlys Rodríguez looks through a classroom door at a school in La Guaira that has been converted into a temporary shelter for families displaced by the earthquakes. Rodríguez runs the shelter.

Lynsey Addario for The Atlantic

Children gather for free lunch at a community kitchen.

In some societies, the absence of the state leads to anarchy. In others, people organize themselves instead. Venezuela is one of those countries, as Machado herself told me in an interview in December 2024. Even when she was in hiding, even when the political situation was at its most dire, Machado was certain that the experience of election organization had brought about “anthropological change,” forging connections among people from different parts of society, inspiring them to want to reform their country from the bottom up.

Nearly two years later, Venezuelans kept telling me the same thing. One young woman, a political activist who had left the country and only recently returned, told me that the earthquakes and the chaos that followed were a sobering reminder of the lessons learned during the 2024 election campaign: The government won’t save us; the Americans won’t save us; we have to work together.

“We are on our own,” she said.

This article appears in the December 2026 print edition with the headline “After the Apocalypse.”

Trump Jr. Privately Breaks With His Dad

2026-10-20T15:25:00-04:00

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Donald Trump Jr. had a simple vision for his father’s foreign policy during the 2024 presidential campaign: If elected, Donald Trump was going to keep America out of another war in the Middle East.

“Remember when they said Trump would get us into a full-blown war with Iran?” he wrote on X that April, as Iran launched a barrage of missiles and drones toward Israel. “Times like these should make us all realize how lucky we were to have Trump, his strength and his resolve.”

Two and a half years later, the president has enmeshed the United States in a full-blown war with Iran—and Trump Jr. isn’t happy about it.

Trump Jr. has repeatedly voiced his opposition to the ongoing Iran war in private conversations, two people who have spoken directly with him about the conflict told us. The president’s son, these people said, opposed the war from its outset and made his opposition known to his father. He has long been skeptical of foreign intervention, these people told us, and believed the U.S. should not enter another Middle East war. Trump Jr. was also especially close to Charlie Kirk, the late conservative activist, who had broken with the Trump administration to oppose the war in Iran.

“Don has kept his views on the subject private, as he would never publicly break with his dad on an issue like this, but I can’t imagine anyone who knows Don would be surprised by his personal views on the subject,” a person close to the president’s son told us. A spokesman for Trump Jr. declined to comment. The White House didn’t respond to questions about Trump Jr.’s position on the war, and an official said in a statement, “Iran has been decimated, and one way or the other, the conflict in Iran will be over very soon.”

The White House’s decision to ally with Israel against Tehran has exposed a deepening rift within MAGA—not just over Iran, but also over what “America First” actually means. The divide pits nationalists who see foreign wars as a betrayal of domestic priorities against hawks who argue that American power must be wielded more aggressively against its adversaries. For years, the two camps coexisted under Trump’s promise of strength without the cost of another major war. Iran has made that balancing act harder to sustain. “Don Jr. is the most MAGA of them all,” one of the people who spoke with him about his opposition to the Iran war told us.

Even within the administration, some of the president’s closest advisers, including Vice President Vance, have voiced private opposition to the war as they deliberated whether to join Israel in its military campaign. Others, including CIA Director John Ratcliffe and Secretary of State Marco Rubio, were skeptical of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s initial pitch in February that a regime-change operation—particularly one conducted from the air—was remotely realistic.

The political costs are mounting. A Pew Research Center survey conducted over the past month found that 65 percent of Americans disapproved of Trump’s handling of the Iran operation, compared with 33 percent who approved. Republican approval fell from 69 percent in March to 63 percent. Nearly half of Americans expected the conflict to drag on for more than a year—far beyond the administration’s initial estimate of about four to six weeks.

[Read: Don Jr.’s wedding trap]

The economic consequences have sharpened the political fallout. Rising gas prices, driven by disruptions to the energy markets, are squeezing already strained household budgets. The midterm elections will test whether Republicans can defend a war that many voters oppose, while convincing those same voters that the administration is focused on their economic concerns. Republican candidates have been forced to defend a war with immense costs and an uncertain conclusion—one that the president initiated without congressional approval.

Trump Jr.’s private opposition offers yet another reminder that doubts about the war are not confined to the president’s critics or the fringes of the Republican Party. It also points to a deeper sentiment within the president’s base that he has betrayed key campaign promises: to avoid foreign wars and to make life more affordable for the average American.

Maine Has Changed. Susan Collins Hasn’t.

2026-10-19T06:00:00-04:00

Senator Susan Collins desperately needed to change the subject. As she stepped around cow manure at the annual Fryeburg Fair, a reporter was asking her about President Trump’s musing that he might campaign in Maine during the closing weeks of the election—an invitation that Collins, trying once again to save her seat, almost certainly had not extended to a man with an approval rating of 32 percent in the state. A campaign staffer tried to cut off the questioning, but the nearly 74-year-old Collins has not won five Senate elections through luck alone, and she quickly found a way out of the tricky Trump talk. “I do have some important news today,” she declared to the assembled scribblers.

Collins went on to announce that she had persuaded the Trump administration to speed up the release of $38 million in home-heating assistance for Maine. Never mind that her office had already publicized the news earlier that day, or that none of the journalists with Collins reported for local publications. This was either Collins at her senatorial savviest, or a stodgy politician reaching for a tattered playbook.

As temperatures plunge, the cost of heating oil is as potent a political issue in Maine as the price of gas is everywhere else. Collins has built her reelection campaign on the idea that she alone, as the chair of the Senate’s powerful Appropriations Committee and the lone Republican elected to Congress in all of New England, can deliver for Maine. She has boasted of bringing home billions for her sparsely populated state over the years. At a debate this month, Collins crowed that she had secured an exemption for road salt—another crucial supply during Maine’s perennial winter freeze—from the tariffs that Trump has slapped on Canadian goods. (“We can’t eat road salt,” her Democratic opponent, Troy Jackson, retorted.)

This strategy has worked for Collins before. In 2020, she defied polls forecasting her defeat and won reelection by nearly nine points over a well-funded Democratic opponent even as Joe Biden carried Maine that year by a similar margin. The contours of that campaign were largely the same as the one Collins is currently waging: Democrats tried to tie her to an unpopular Trump, denounced her claims to be independent, and assailed her vote to confirm Justice Brett Kavanaugh as a potential death knell for Roe v. Wade. Collins prevailed by leaning on her bipartisan record and the federal aid she had secured for her state.

Six years later, Democrats have reason to believe that a message that fell short in 2020 will resonate more deeply now. Both Collins and Trump have lower approval ratings in the state than they did then, and the decisive vote Collins gave to Kavanaugh proved consequential when he sided with a majority on the Supreme Court in overturning Roe. (Collins, who supports abortion rights, has said she relied on Kavanaugh’s statements that he considered the 1973 ruling to be settled legal precedent. Earlier this year, however, she told reporters that she did not regret her vote.) Democrats have added ammunition against Collins following a ProPublica report that, in late 2024, the FBI was on the verge of launching a bribery investigation into federal contracts she had helped land for her campaign donors (one of whom had pleaded guilty to making illegal contributions). The probe ended after Trump took office and the Department of Justice slashed its public-corruption units. Collins has denied wrongdoing.

On paper, Maine should be the easiest state for Democrats to flip during a year in which, polls suggest, voters are intent on punishing the GOP. It is the only state that Kamala Harris carried in 2024—she won by seven points—where a Republican incumbent senator is on the ballot. Yet Democrats have not been able to put Collins away. Polls show a close race; Jackson is leading narrowly in some surveys, and Collins is ahead in others. She is faring no worse—and in some cases better—than Republican incumbents running in more conservative states such as Ohio, Alaska, and Kansas.

Collins is benefiting, too, from a Democratic campaign that has at times verged on the shambolic. Party leaders initially tried to recruit Governor Janet Mills to challenge Collins, despite the fact that Mills would have been, if elected, a 79-year-old Senate freshman. Mills entered the race but withdrew when polls showed her getting crushed in the primary by Graham Platner, the progressive oyster farmer. Platner shot quickly to national stardom, surviving the revelation that he had a tattoo resembling an infamous Nazi emblem, but he was forced to withdraw following allegations of sexual assault (which he denied).

[Read: Platner just made things harder for Democrats ]

Democrats then nominated Jackson, another Bernie Sanders acolyte who had finished third in the party primary for governor earlier this year. Jackson and Collins hail from the same rural county in northern Maine, and he still sounds like he grew up a few miles from the Canadian border. Jackson followed his father into logging before entering politics; he’s served in the state legislature for most of the past two decades, rising to become the leader of the Maine Senate. He lacks both Platner’s strengths and weaknesses—less obviously flawed but also less polished and charismatic. “Troy does not have the energy or the engagement that Graham did,” Wendy Frayer, a 53-year-old social worker from Auburn, Maine, told me at a Jackson rally. “He probably lost some votes.”

Whether Jackson can reassemble, and possibly expand, Platner’s coalition is a key question in the closing weeks. But when I spoke with both Democrats and Republicans in Maine recently, they each argued that the race will turn less on voters’ views about Jackson than on their opinions of Collins. “Troy Jackson is a nonfactor,” one Democrat who’s not working on the campaign told me after being granted anonymity to speak bluntly about the party’s candidate. “The question is: Will the trends catch up with her this year?”

Collins is, at this point in her career, a pretty sporadic campaigner. She does not regularly hold large rallies or town halls, and during a six-day stretch in mid-October that I spent in Maine, her staff notified reporters of only a single public appearance aside from a televised debate with Jackson. (The rivals held four debates over two weeks, so voters have gotten to hear plenty from both candidates.)

The Fryeburg Fair, however, is always a fun stop for Collins, as well as an ideal place for her campaign to demonstrate that her connection to Maine’s voters remains strong. The annual festival is the state’s biggest, drawing upwards of 20,000 people a day and transforming a small town near the New Hampshire border into “Maine’s second-largest city,” according to a fair official who served as Collins’s guide for the day. Fryeburg sits in a rural county that voted overwhelmingly for Collins in 2020, and during a two-hour stroll through the fairgrounds, people flocked to her. “Please win,” one man told Collins as he introduced her to his family. (She offered campaign stickers to the kids.) “I’m doing my best,” the senator replied with a smile. Collins gamely posed for photos with all who sought them, including a pair of teenage boys wearing shirts that read I ❤️ Boobies, which they had purchased from a nearby T-shirt vendor. (One of them did remove his hat for the photo out of respect.) Collins also tolerated the reporters who were trailing her, although as she made her way through a fragrant, high-traffic stretch near the livestock barn, she chided one of them: “Don’t make me walk in shit.”

I was struck by how many people not only recognized Collins but seemed to be familiar with her accomplishments—an indication of both her standing and the imprint of millions of dollars that she and her allies are spending on TV ads. Multiple Collins supporters brought up, unprompted, the record-setting 10,000th consecutive Senate vote without an absence that she cast in June. “Character is huge, and Susan Collins has a great character record,” Chet Charette, the deputy fire chief in Fryeburg, told me. Charette is backing Collins even though he wants to see term limits for members of Congress, which she opposes. (During her first campaign, in 1996, Collins pledged to serve only two terms in the Senate.) “She’s a lot more cognizant than a lot of them are,” Charette said.

By virtue of her lonely position in the middle of a polarized political climate, Collins must also rely on votes from people whom she frequently disappoints. Outside the Portland TV studio that hosted one of her debates, a boisterous crowd of Collins supporters cheered her arrival. When I asked Marc Fournier, a 55-year-old from nearby Westbrook, why he was backing Collins, he began with a disclaimer: “Susan Collins is not my favorite person.” He explained that he was displeased Collins had opposed some key Trump priorities. “She’s giving votes away,” Fournier complained. But he added: “Just because I disagree with her doesn’t mean I’m not going to vote for her.”

As Collins was concluding her visit to the Fryeburg Fair, a man who gave his name as Jim greeted her with a notably less friendly message. He told Collins he had supported her for years, but she had lost his vote when she backed Kavanaugh and helped Trump “stack” the Supreme Court. “You don’t stand up when it’s important,” Jim said. “I do,” Collins protested.

[Read: The guard that won’t be changing]

A key explanation for Collins’s political resilience is that in deep-blue New England, plenty of Democratic voters pride themselves on rewarding GOP moderation. In 2024, Vermonters elected Phil Scott, a Republican, to a fifth term as governor by a 50-point margin even as they backed Kamala Harris for president and Sanders’s return to the Senate. New Hampshire has elected Republican governors for the past decade.

Yet that tendency among some Democrats in the region to vote for the “good Republican” extends less and less to federal officeholders in the Trump era, and the force of political gravity that Collins must overcome is stronger this year than ever before. When it was my turn for a question in Fryeburg, I asked Collins what she would say to Mainers who are unhappy with the direction of the country and who might use this election to vote for change. “Well, first of all, I contest the premise of your question,” Collins replied, pointing to her “enormously favorable” reception among the fairgoers. At that moment, a man started loudly heckling her. “You can’t eat road salt, can ya?!” he shouted. “There are always a few exceptions,” Collins observed with a tight smile, before going on with a lengthy defense of her record delivering for Maine. She did not seem especially concerned that her critics have grown significantly in number over the years or that, in a few weeks’ time, they could marshal the votes to end her long career.

Democrats’ Sudden Revulsion Toward Big Tech

2026-10-19T06:00:00-04:00

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A new boogeyman arrived in Democratic campaign ads this year with such force that it was possible to forget it had ever been absent. Slotted between clichés about “rising costs,” the “rigged economy,” and the elusive “fair shot” for the middle class, the familiar villains of billionaires, insurance companies, and “MAGA extremists” were joined by a friend turned foe.

“Big Tech’s invading Ohio, driving up our electric rates, damaging our environment, destroying our farmland,” Representative Marcy Kaptur of Ohio warned in one ad. Roy Cooper, who is running in North Carolina for Senate, said in another: “My plan stops grocery stores from using AI to overcharge you.” A 30-second spot in Wisconsin features Rebecca Cooke, a congressional candidate, promising voters seated around a kitchen table: “I don’t want to be beholden to any of these Big Tech companies.” And the House Majority PAC, a group closely aligned with Democratic leaders that has been attacking Republicans for their proximity to the new baddie on the block, released an ad labeling the incumbent Republican in Wisconsin’s Third District “Data Center Derrick Van Orden”—and suggesting that he was designed by artificial intelligence to serve its interests.

The sudden Democratic revulsion toward Big Tech and all its offspring—data centers, artificial intelligence, tech oligarchs—has defined this midterm election and will likely continue through the early innings of the 2028 presidential campaign. For most of the past few decades, Democrats cast themselves as a futurist party heralding a digital utopia, a posture founded by Al Gore and solidified when Barack Obama traveled to Google’s headquarters in 2007 to announce his presidential campaign’s commitment to “use technology to reach ever-expanding horizons.” Republicans were the ones warning about censorship and centralized power, as corporate executives clumsily adjusted the levers of permissible speech on social media.

But partisan passions on tech have been realigning from the moment President Trump delivered his second inaugural address in 2025, with Silicon Valley’s centibillionaires as background props. The president’s hostility toward attempts to rein in AI has solidified the shift. Democratic politicians and strategists now enter the final weeks of a midterm season convinced that they have uncovered a way to persuade Trump’s voters to at least hesitate before voting for Republicans. “Trump and his anti-AI-regulation posture is dragging the party to a politically suicidal place,” Rob Flaherty, one of Joe Biden’s top digital strategists, told me. “They are grabbing the wrong side of an 80–20 issue at exactly the wrong time.”

Republican campaign advisers, including those in Trump’s circle, admit the new vulnerability—and are taking tentative steps to address it. The president laid out a voluntary Ratepayer Protection Pledge in March, aiming to assure voters that new AI server farms would not increase their utility bill. The Republican-led House voted in September to request that state regulators require those standards, legislation that was then championed by Senator Jon Husted of Ohio, who is in a tight race with his Democratic challenger, former Senator Sherrod Brown. “The data center brand is the anchor,” the National Republican Senatorial Committee wrote in an August memo, describing a drag on Husted’s reelection efforts that was first reported by The New York Times. Republican strategists were also alarmed by how much voters responded to the issue: “This messaging is significantly more effective than traditional messaging tracts, as it introduces new information on a highly relevant, emerging topic.”

[Read: The Republicans are bolting from Trump]

But the memo declaring “a sleeper issue for the entire election cycle” had little influence over Trump’s own rhetoric, and the president spent much of September insisting that concerns of an AI-induced apocalypse were a “hoax” and “sick conspiracy.” While his Cabinet went on television to defend data centers as a great American boon, Trump gathered the leaders of the nation’s technology companies at the White House so that he could praise them and they could praise him. Democrats have been delighted. When the progressive data firm Catalist asked in a poll which party Americans trust when it comes to “responding to the impact of artificial intelligence (AI) on jobs and society,” they favored Democrats by eight percentage points in July and August. The lead grew to 12 points in September, just as the explosion of television advertising started hitting screens. “Donald Trump decided to convene executives from Big Tech and then lecture the American people that their concerns about data centers are unfounded,” House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries told me in a recent gaggle with reporters. “This is extraordinary stuff.”

The anti–Big Tech ads have saturated swing districts around the country. Reset Tech—a left-leaning group focused on the intersection of AI, media, and democracy that supports more technology regulation—recently used advertising data collected by the tracking firm AdImpact to quantify the messaging shift. From 2020 to 2024, a period that includes three congressional and two presidential cycles, Republican candidates and their allies spent more than $7.3 million on 26 ads that name-checked Big Tech, while Democrats spent just $512,000 on two ads. This cycle the polarities have reversed. Democrats have spent $14 million on 86 ads that mention Big Tech, compared with almost $6.3 million by Republican interests on 37 ads. The contrast in this cycle regarding spots critical of the data-center boom is even more profound: Democratic candidates and groups have run 286 critical ads, compared with 121 ads by Republican interests.

Rishi Bharwani, the U.S. director of Reset Tech, told me that the investments Democrats have made over the past three months to “seed this issue” are now helping produce changes in polling. “This will play a meaningful factor in the outcome of the 2026 midterms,” Bharwani said, “and put Democrats on a strong footing going into the presidential election cycle.”

[Read: Trump’s see-no-evil AI policy]

Democratic strategists began tracking the opportunity earlier this year, when polling from House districts showed surprising concern about AI. In one batch of Democratic polls from March, which I obtained, unfavorable views of AI stood at an average of 63 percent across Maine’s Second District, California’s Twenty-Second District, and Colorado’s Eighth District—all battlegrounds.

New Jersey Governor Mikie Sherrill, a Democrat, was an early tech critic, and her 2025 campaign focused on online safety for children. She told me that she became interested when, during her time in Congress, Republican leaders in the House refused to call a vote for the Kids Online Safety and Privacy Act, which had passed the Senate with 91 votes. Since then, she has signed multiple bills in New Jersey that regulate social-media access for children and clamp down on the use of algorithms to set grocery prices and rent. “Trump is the Republican Party in Washington,” she said. “Democrats have to step into this, and they have to lead here, and I think you see it in these campaigns.” Just this week, two candidates from opposite ends of the party’s ideological spectrum—Abdul El-Sayed, the Senate candidate in Michigan, and David Crowley, the candidate for governor in Wisconsin—released plans for technology regulation.

Flaherty and Bharwani argue that the potency of this issue will only grow as AI’s disruption persists. Polls this cycle continue to show that AI barely ranks as a priority for voters. But Democrats believe that they can tie it to the cost of living and economic insecurity—issues that are at the top of the list. A Democratic-aligned super PAC called Tomorrow Together, which Flaherty co-founded, recently began testing the theory with a $4 million ad buy in four House districts. The ads connect concern over Big Tech with the populist frustration over diminished economic opportunity. One of the taglines: “Lining their pockets, emptying yours.”

Bharwani said that the Democrats’ new stance is a recognition that Obama’s vision of a virtuous cycle of tech-driven innovation never came to pass. “What we all experienced was a ton of growth in the tech sector, the creation of numerous new billionaires, and even the world’s first trillionaire, and a bunch of working families basically recognizing that they’re not sharing,” he told me. “These tech companies are actually undermining their economic security and their safety.” That argument is now being served up to prospective 2028 presidential contenders, who will be shaping the next vision for Democratic governance in a nation where technological change continues to accelerate.

He Joined the Military. They Reported His Wife to ICE.

2026-10-16T07:05:00-04:00

Giovanna Perez loaded her four kids into the car on September 21 and drove from their home in Weslaco, Texas, to Naval Air Station Corpus Christi. She had a 9:30 a.m. appointment to pick up the ID cards that would allow them to access military medical insurance, facilities, and commissary stores. Her husband, Pedro Gutierrez, had recently enlisted in the Army and left a month earlier for basic training at Fort Benning, in Georgia.

Perez approached the military guards at the gates with some trepidation. Her parents illegally brought her across the U.S. border from Mexico when she was 6 years old. Now 35, she and Gutierrez have been together since they were 17 and have carefully kept her immigration status a secret. Gutierrez is a U.S. citizen, but marriage does not give legal status to someone who is in the country unlawfully. When the Obama administration started the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program to protect immigrants like Perez who had arrived as children, she did not apply, for fear that the government might someday use the information against her family.

Perez told us that her husband believed that joining the Army would allow him to serve his country, give his family access to health care—including the costly medications his son takes—and potentially protect his wife from deportation. He had already submitted her application for a benefit called Parole in Place, which offers a path to legal residency for the close relatives of service members. Officials at Fort Benning had assured him that she would have no trouble getting IDs for herself and the children, and that it didn’t matter that she didn’t have a Social Security number, Perez told us.

At the gates of the Navy base, guards told Perez they had no record of her appointment. She remained calm as they directed her to a nearby office to get a visitor’s pass. That’s when two military officials took the family into a room for questioning. “In my head, I thought it was just protocol for the safety of the base, but it started getting weird,” Perez said. As she answered, she told us, one of the military officers appeared to be relaying her responses to someone through text messages.

Two other men entered the room. They wore khaki pants, she said, not military fatigues. The patches on their shirts said U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. It appeared to Perez that they’d been waiting for her, at the base or somewhere nearby. The men told Perez to report to the ICE office in Harlingen, Texas, in three days. Her older children, ages 17, 15, and 11, were confused. “My kids were just, like, What’s going on?” Perez told us. “Are they gonna detain you? Why are they doing this to us? I thought you were supposed to be safe.”

Perez didn’t know what to tell them, and she had no way to call her husband. When she went to the ICE office three days later, she was booked and issued an order to appear in immigration court. She suspected the military shared her information with ICE. And now the government was trying to deport her.

Perez’s attorney, Alex Martinez, told us he’s trying to determine whether other families have been targeted in similar ways. He suspects that the government has been using Parole in Place to gather information for immigration-enforcement purposes—the opposite of what military recruits are led to believe.

“There’s no bigger betrayal to our soldiers than to use their trust in a program, set out by our government to protect their families, and ultimately use it to destroy their families while they’re serving our country and putting their lives on the line,” Martinez told us. “You’re stabbing your own soldiers in the back.”

Gabriel V. Cárdenas for The Atlantic

Perez shows a photo of her husband, who is at military training.

The Associated Press in August identified at least 50 cases in which close family of active-duty service members were arrested by ICE. What’s different about Perez’s case is that U.S. military personnel appeared to be working with ICE to identify a potential target and use a long-standing military-recruitment tool—the promise of legal status for loved ones—to facilitate an arrest.

ICE confirmed to us in a statement that Navy personnel had reported Perez to immigration officers when the family arrived at the base. The Department of Homeland Security and ICE “value the contributions of all those who serve in the U.S. military,” the statement said. “Having a family member in the military is not a free pass to violate our nation’s laws. Military service by an immediate relative does not automatically grant parole, lawful status, or immunity from immigration enforcement."

Perez told us the ICE officers seemed to be expecting her, told her they knew that Gutierrez had applied for Parole in Place, and asked questions about a trip her son had taken with his grandmother to Mexico years earlier.

Neither the Army nor the Office of the Secretary of Defense responded to requests for comment, but one defense official told us that there have been “varying degrees of cooperation between military installations and the Department of Homeland Security” for more than a year. The official declined to be named because he, like others we spoke with, was not authorized to talk publicly about this issue. Another official told us that DHS often made such requests to installations at a local level, but there were inconsistent degrees of cooperation. The Navy declined to comment.

[Read: Trump loves ICE. Its workforce has never been so miserable.]

Within months of President Trump’s second inauguration, military mental-health specialists began telling us that service members within their units were fearful about how the administration’s crackdown on immigrants could affect their families. They described spouses afraid to go on base while their partner was deployed, family members too scared to leave their home, and uniformed service members accompanying loved ones to immigration appointments or hearings with the hope that their presence would make immigration officials or judges pause. Such worries, the specialists said, were becoming a distraction for those serving, particularly during deployments. It was an early sign of a break in a long-standing bargain: A government that asks Americans to take extraordinary risks would not add stress that could distract service members from their missions.

Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth frequently touts the military’s surging recruitment numbers. Less often mentioned is the military’s success in recruiting from some of the country’s most heavily Hispanic communities, including the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas, where Perez and Gutierrez live. Hispanic recruits accounted for nearly 27 percent of new Army soldiers last year, up from just less than 20 percent in 2020, according to Army statistics. This population remains key to the Army meeting its recruiting standards even as service members from these communities have reported that their families have been targeted by ICE.

Military law enforcement cannot provide direct support to civilian law enforcement, under the Posse Comitatus Act, a 19th-century law that was intended to keep the military from meddling in the affairs of southern states. But to secure an installation, military police can inspect those who enter. “Anytime somebody makes an appointment on a military base, that information could get shared throughout the federal government,” Margaret D. Stock, an immigration lawyer and former Army Reserve officer who helped develop the Military Accessions Vital to the National Interest (MAVNI) program, told us. Under the Trump administration, those who serve, along with their families, are no more protected from immigration enforcement than those submitting their data to any other government agency. “The military is no longer immune from this,” Stock said. Some troops are asking for overseas assignments where they can live with their family members, far from ICE agents.

In April, ICE officers arrested the 22-year-old wife of a U.S. soldier when the couple moved to an Army base in Louisiana. The woman, Annie Ramos, was born in Honduras and had a previous deportation order issued in absentia when she was a toddler. Ramos was released after Senator Mark Kelly of Arizona, a Democrat, spoke with Homeland Security Secretary Markwayne Mullin on her behalf.

Bobby Pulido, a Democratic candidate in the Rio Grande Valley who is running for Congress, has cited her case as an example of ICE overreach by the Trump administration. “The scary part is they’re doubling down on it. They don’t care,” Pulido said in a video clip with Perez that his campaign posted on social media on Wednesday.

It used to be that the military was seen as a potential pathway to U.S. citizenship. Military service can qualify noncitizens for expedited naturalization, and the Pentagon has at times recruited people who were not permanent residents. More than 180,000 members of the U.S. military have become naturalized citizens since 2002, according to U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. In 2008, at the height of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Pentagon launched the MAVNI program, which allowed some immigrants who were living legally in the U.S. but were not citizens to enlist based on specialized skills considered vital, including medical expertise and foreign-language proficiency. The program expired in 2017 and was not renewed. The government established the Parole in Place benefit in 2010, allowing family members to remain in the United States and apply for legal status. Approval is discretionary and does not guarantee a green card. But the promise remains a powerful recruiting tool for the armed services in immigrant communities.

[Read: The northern passage]

Perez said she has no criminal record and no previous deportation orders. She met her husband at a quinceañera party when they were teenagers in Laredo. Gutierrez drove commercial trucks but decided to enlist in the Army to secure health-insurance coverage for the family and college-tuition aid for their older children. Fixing Perez’s immigration status was another incentive for him, she told us.

Gabriel V. Cárdenas for The Atlantic

Perez plays with her 2-year-old son at their home in Weslaco, Texas.

It was in a 20-minute weekend phone call that Gutierrez learned the country he was serving had been trying to deport his wife and separate his family. Had Perez been sent to a detention center, as many immigrants are, Gutierrez would have been forced to leave basic training to care for his children—a governmental loss of not just a new service member but also roughly $50,000 in sunk training costs, according to Army estimates. Perez stays home to take care of their 2-year-old, and she told us she has no idea what would happen to her children if ICE sent her to Mexico. “I have no one,” she said. “I’m by myself.”

Her husband will graduate from basic training on November 5, and Perez and her children plan to drive to Georgia for the ceremony at Fort Benning. They were issued their military IDs, so they should be allowed onto the base. Perez told us that she’s in a discussion group with other military families who are asking a lot of questions about who will be allowed to attend the graduation. Five days after the ceremony, Perez will be due back in court in Texas.

Watching for a Blue Wave in South Carolina

2026-10-16T07:00:00-04:00

Updated on October 16 at 9:55 a.m. ET

Nancy Lacore found out she was fired as the chief of the Navy Reserve almost a year to the day after she got the job. On a Friday morning in August 2025, Admiral James Kilby, then the acting chief of naval operations, called Lacore to his office in the Pentagon. She went alone, and when she asked how Kilby was doing, his reply—“Not good”—told her all she needed to know. By the time Kilby delivered the news, he had tears in his eyes, Lacore says. He told her that Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth had directed him to relieve her of command effective immediately. No reason was given. “I kind of fell forward a little bit on the table,” Lacore told me. “It just knocked the wind out of me for a second.”

Lacore is among the dozens of military leaders that Hegseth has sacked or ousted over the past year and a half, many of them women and people of color. She’s since taken a different path: Lacore recounted her story to me after a campaign event outside Charleston, South Carolina, where she is asking voters to send her back to Washington—this time as a member of Congress. When Lacore left the Pentagon on that summer Friday, she never returned, her 35-year military career effectively over. (The Pentagon declined to comment.) By January, she had launched a bid as a Democrat for the House in South Carolina’s Low Country.

South Carolina’s First District is a reach for Democrats, but it is one of more than a dozen races across the country where the party is testing how deep into GOP territory it can advance in November. President Trump carried the district by 13 points in 2024. Democrats flipped the seat in 2018, during their blue midterm wave in Trump’s first term. But Republicans won it back two years later and then redrew the district’s lines to cement their advantage. Now the unpopularity of both Trump and the outgoing incumbent, Representative Nancy Mace, has put the seat in play again for Democrats. (Mace ran for governor—she lost badly in the primary—instead of for reelection to the House.)

Democrats see Lacore’s long military record, moderate policy positions, and steady demeanor as an ideal fit for a constituency that is more country-club Republican than MAGA, and which seems to have grown exhausted by the headline-grabbing Mace. Indeed, most of the political operatives I spoke with said Lacore would probably be in an even better position if Mace were her opponent; instead, she is facing Jenny Costa Honeycutt, a Republican Charleston County council member who is distancing herself from Mace by pledging to steer clear of “clickbait politics.”

Lacore is a former Republican who left the party during Trump’s first presidential run. Like many other Democratic candidates this year, she has placed affordability at the center of her platform. She talks about her experience as a mother of six kids as much as her decades in the Navy, and the challenges she faced juggling a large family in which both she and her husband were service members, and overseas deployments seem to resonate in a district with a large military presence. During a veterans’ forum I attended, Lacore’s call to end the Iran war drew hearty applause.

Although Lacore mentions her firing by Hegseth on the campaign trail, she’s not trying to portray herself as a “resistance” hero. (Such candidacies have not fared particularly well.) She pitches herself as a supporter of border security and law enforcement; one of her daughters, she notes, is a police officer. When I asked Lacore where she parted ways with the national Democratic Party, she took the opportunity to distance herself from the far left: “I am not a socialist,” she replied.

“They can’t really hang a lot of the woke stuff on her or try to make her out to be some sort of weirdo,” Ed Sutton, a Democratic state senator in the area, told me.

Without a long political record to scrutinize, Republicans have harped on Lacore’s thin ties to the district; she bought a home in the Charleston area only last year, having planned to retire there at the end of her four-year term as Navy Reserve chief (which Hegseth cut short). During a debate last Wednesday, Honeycutt took every opportunity to remind viewers that Lacore had been, until recently, an out-of-towner.

Lacore’s Democratic-primary opponents pursued the same line of attack, but the appeal of that critique with so many transplants and retirees populating the stretch from Charleston to Hilton Head Island is questionable. The local population has grown so rapidly in recent years that concerns about overdevelopment have become a potent political issue. Lacore has criticized Honeycutt for her work representing developers in the area. “There are more people in my town now who are not from here than there are people who are natives,” Will Haynie, the mayor of Mount Pleasant, a Charleston suburb, told me. Many newcomers to the area are, like Lacore, military service members. “That is not a disqualifier,” he said.

Haynie, a Republican, endorsed Lacore early in her campaign. He had backed Mace when she first ran for the seat, in 2020, but he’s become disenchanted with the Trump administration and told me he was looking for a Democrat who would fight for the area’s needs and help restore the balance of power between Congress and the presidency. “I was looking for a Democrat that I could trust, a Democrat who’s a proven leader, and a Democrat who I think would be very independent,” Haynie said. “I didn’t just do this as a political stunt.”

During her veterans’ event, Lacore leveled nearly as much criticism at Mace as at Honeycutt, saying the district had long been “ignored” by Mace. Voters there spoke of their representative with open disgust and noted approvingly that Lacore struck them as everything Mace was not. “The longer she was involved in politics, the crazier she got,” Gary Gould, a 73-year-old retired consultant, told me of Mace. Lacore, by contrast, “dripped character and credibility,” he said. “It seems like she knows her way around Washington without being tainted by being a politician.”

Honeycutt’s campaign did not make her available for an interview. Mace, however, responded to an inquiry almost immediately. She defended her popularity in the area, noting that she had brought hundreds of millions of dollars to the district and won her most recent race, in 2024, easily—her margin of 16 points outperformed Trump. (That election, however, came before she launched a high-profile crusade against the first openly transgender person elected to the House, Representative Sarah McBride; before she allegedly berated airport security officers; and before the publication of stories in which colleagues and associates described her as “unstable” and “unhinged.”) Mace took issue with both Lacore’s and Honeycutt’s messaging about her. “If somebody wants to call me clickbait politics,” Mace told me, or say that she’s “ignoring the district, I’d hate to see what they think their definition of serving it is, and I would hate to see how they would navigate attacks by the establishment on their record.”

[Read: The GOP’s culture-war Hail Mary]

Mace has raised concerns about the GOP’s standing in South Carolina’s Senate race, in which nervous Republican groups have begun spending on behalf of Senator Darline Graham—sister of the late Lindsey Graham. But Mace is supporting Honeycutt and believes she’ll defeat Lacore. “I think she’ll win handily,” Mace said. “She has been in the community a very long time.”

Lacore’s other liability could be some lingering resentment from a contentious primary. She won with the help of significant outside spending from Democratic groups such as the Bench, which has backed some of the party’s most prominent recruits, including James Talarico in Texas, Josh Turek in Iowa, and Adam Hamilton in Kansas. Lacore’s top rival in the primary, Mac Deford, has yet to endorse her candidacy, and when I spoke with him at a gathering of Democrats in Charleston, he told me he had not yet seen her campaign aggressively enough among people “who traditionally do not vote for Democrats.” (A Lacore spokesperson responded: “I would invite Mac to come to the many events we’re doing in every corner of the district where a bipartisan coalition of voters is showing their support.”)

Lacore has significantly outraised Honeycutt, and the Democrats’ main House super PAC has reserved ad money for a late push on her behalf. Republicans remain confident that they’ll retain the seat, though their allies are spending as if it might be at risk. A spokesperson for the GOP’s House campaign committee told me Democrats are wasting money on a “solidly Republican” seat. (The Cook Political Report today moved the race in the Democrats’ direction, changing its forecast from “likely Republican” to “lean Republican.”)

Democrats last week circulated a poll showing Lacore narrowly ahead of Honeycutt, but they aren’t quite predicting victory, either. “Anybody who tells you it’s not a tough district doesn’t know what they’re talking about,” John Moffett, a Charleston-based Democratic strategist, told me. But, he said, “if there’s a candidate that can win this race right now, it’s Nancy Lacore.” Judging from the polling nationwide, the ingredients are in place for a blue wave. In South Carolina, both parties are wondering if it will be big enough to carry Lacore to Congress.

Going Hungry in Trump’s Economy

2026-10-14T11:31:56-04:00

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Driving through Arizona on a Saturday morning, I saw a line of cars nearly a mile long stopped along a high-desert highway. I slowed, thinking there had been an accident. Then I realized that all of those people were waiting in line for food.

Weeks later, I went back to the area and met Kandy Soto. The retired administrative aide and courtroom clerk had once been a regular donor to her local food bank. But when I met her last month, she was a recipient of other people’s generosity, preparing to fill a bag with groceries that her family could no longer afford. Soto told me that the cost of canned vegetables seemed to creep up nearly every time she went to the store. After checking prices against her budget, she might buy some cheap fish fillets or canned meats, but beef or poultry were out of the question. Sometimes she left empty-handed.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When she voted for Donald Trump two years ago, Soto counted on him to fulfill his promise to “make America affordable again” following painful spikes in inflation under Joe Biden. She wonders what kind of life Trump and his family are living, because she sees no signs of the roaring economy he talks about. Her own family has had a run of bad luck: Her husband had to stop working after injuring his neck and requiring surgery. Then they learned that their modest retirement income made them ineligible for public assistance. All the while, prices for gas and groceries climbed. The situation grew so dire a few months ago that the 66-year-old Soto had to set aside any feelings of shame and drive 20 miles to the Community Cupboard Food Bank in Prescott. “It takes an older person a lot of giving up to do something like this,” she said.

Jesse Rieser for The Atlantic

The Community Cupboard in Prescott, Arizona

In the surrounding county, Yavapai, Trump took 66 percent of the vote on his way to winning Arizona two years ago. In 2016, he staged a final campaign rally here before Election Day. Trump is counting on the region to help blunt what polls forecast to be a Democratic rout next month, and will hold a rally Wednesday in Bullhead City, about 200 miles to the northwest. But the president’s grip appears to be loosening, and the state of the economy explains why.

The toll of rising prices has been especially acute in Arizona. About half a million residents have lost their food stamps since the summer of 2025 because of changes in Trump’s signature tax legislation, which limits assistance and penalizes states that make mistakes when they grant benefits. The law is still being phased in, and Arizona was among the first states to enact the changes.

Nearly everyone I spoke with in the area last month, including Trump supporters, said they feel worse off than they were before the 2024 election. Unemployment in Arizona stood at 3.8 percent in August 2024; this August it was 4.9 percent, according to federal data. Many people I spoke with in the county said they are working, but their paychecks haven’t kept up with increased prices for gas and food. Almost all told me they are angry about Trump’s decisions to start a war and spend hundreds of millions of dollars ornamenting a capital city they will never see. They were incredulous to hear him claim that their lives have improved with him in office. Many said they are also disillusioned with Congress and with both political parties. They lamented the corruption they see as endemic in the government and in large corporations, and denounced billionaires, whom they view as capitalizing on their pain.

[Read: Trump voters are over it]

People told me they are anxious about many things: future employment opportunities, feeding their children healthy meals, keeping small businesses running, affording car repairs. Trump has said that “the American dream is back.” But not for the people I spoke with in Yavapai County.

Jesse Rieser for The Atlantic

A political sign at the Apache Lodge, a historic motel

Victoria Dombrowski has found a way to help her family in this economy: the barter system.

She lost $800 a month in food stamps after state officials, who administer the program, took aggressive action to comply with new eligibility requirements mandated by the GOP’s One Big Beautiful Bill Act. Dombrowski, a stay-at-home mother of two young children, told me she had completed the renewal paperwork and had made it all the way to the end of the process, which included an interview with a caseworker about her financial situation. But even after waiting on hold for days and enlisting help from a nonprofit group, she couldn’t get through to staff at the Arizona Department of Economic Security. “And so I just gave up,” she said. I met Dombrowski at a dollar store, where she now shops because she can no longer afford Walmart.

Dombrowski’s husband works at an auto-parts store, but his income isn’t enough to support the family. So she occasionally began picking up boxes of free food that were offered in the community. But more often than not, she said, the food was expired or the offerings were sugary desserts that didn’t give her kids the nutrition they needed. “My fridge is still empty,” she said. Dombrowski once prided herself on making her family hearty home-cooked food, such as meatloaf and potatoes. Since losing food aid, she has had little choice but to serve cheap microwavable meals. She and others have started bartering for services. For her son’s birthday this summer, she trimmed a dog’s nails; in exchange, a friend brought animals to her home for a petting-zoo-themed party.

Across Arizona, food banks are seeing profound need. They served, on average, 626,881 people monthly in 2024; about 786,366 Arizonans have used a food bank each month this year, according to the Arizona Food Bank Network. Wages aren’t rising as fast as expenses, and more Arizonans continue to lose their food stamps due to changes from the tax bill.

Jesse Rieser for The Atlantic

Veteran’s Memorial Island in Prescott

The Community Cupboard Food Bank in Prescott recently received a call on behalf of 17 veterans in the community who had “no food, whatsoever,” Jim Phelps, the organization’s executive director, told me. Workers made an emergency haul one night, packing a Tesla with two loads of food to distribute. Ron Brannon was one of the people waiting for something to eat. Brannon, a tall and lanky disabled Army veteran, told me that if he worked really hard at it, he could stretch his Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program benefits until the tenth of each month. His monthly total was recently cut to $60, and when his balance hits $0, “I just go without,” the 68-year-old said. Sam Riske, a 32-year-old former military police officer who wore her baby in a carrier as she waited in line for food delivered by the Community Cupboard, told me that she’s been trying since February to get answers from state officials about the status of her application for temporary cash assistance for low-income families. This summer, she said, her family lost about $780 in monthly food benefits because she didn’t keep up with her eligibility paperwork. To make ends meet, she has taken up dog sitting. Her partner has taken odd jobs.

[Read: Public anger is rising]

Outside a popular carnicería in Prescott Valley where federal officials carried out immigration-enforcement operations this summer, a woman who declined to give me her full name out of fear of drawing attention to her situation complained of high food prices and a shortage of laborers that has squeezed her family’s roofing company. But all of that is the least of her concerns, she said as she loaded groceries in her car. Her husband was recently deported, and she’s just trying to make it through the day, running her household and managing employees. “It’s hard right now,” the 37-year-old said. She isn’t counting on anything to get better anytime soon. Inside of the meat shop, banda music blared. A manager politely asked me to leave, explaining that the immigration operations had made customers fearful. Business had been down since then, and she didn’t want the presence of a reporter to make it worse.

Many Republicans I talked with said they supported those immigration crackdowns, even though they brought pain and fear to many people in their community. Dawn Zimmerman, a cosmetologist who owns a studio in Mayer, Arizona, told me that Trump, whom she voted for in 2024, is “doing a lot.” But with out-of-control costs, she added, people are “freaking out.” Prices for hair products have exploded, she said, and her clients are now buying them for less at big-box retailers or online. Fewer people are coming to get their hair done. But she is reluctant to raise prices, because so many clients are older or on fixed incomes. Zimmerman didn’t vote in the primary election, she said, but does intend to vote in November. When I asked if she planned to support Republicans, she was noncommittal: “It’s hard right now because there’s a lot of—there’s more deceit.” I asked what she meant. She cited Trump’s tendency to offload blame for why people can’t see “how good the country is doing”—and how disconnected he seems from her pain.

Trump’s October Surprise

2026-10-12T17:08:00-04:00

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It rained most of Sunday in Washington, as the remnants of Hurricane Isaias washed over the East Coast. Unable to golf, and stuck inside the White House, President Trump spent part of his morning on social media touting the size of his rallies and defending Christopher Columbus. He also declared that Russia and Ukraine had agreed to halt strikes against each other’s energy infrastructures. Except that he hadn’t first confirmed that with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky—and Russia spent the hours that followed bombarding Ukraine with missiles and drones, hitting a Kharkiv power plant.

Trump’s inability to bring the Iran war to a close has left him incensed but also oddly paralyzed, two people close to him told us. One of them, an adviser, said that Trump “is used to snapping his fingers and having the whole world—Republicans, world leaders, the media—come to attention, and he is losing his mind that Iran won’t listen.” Iran has resumed menacing oil tankers in the Strait of Hormuz, and the average price of diesel in the United States has crossed the $6-a-gallon mark, raising the cost of goods that travel the nation’s highways on trucks.

Republicans are panicked that those high energy prices could help Democrats take control of the House and Senate in the midterm elections, which are now only three weeks away. Trump has been searching for a scapegoat, and appears to have settled on Ukraine. Although blaming a European country that’s fighting for its existence for the rise in global oil prices might seem implausible, Trump seems to prefer that to accepting responsibility for his decision to attack Iran. His broadsides against Ukraine, moreover, are consistent with his decade-long deference to Vladimir Putin. With rare exceptions, Trump has aligned with Moscow over Kyiv throughout the four-and-a-half-year war. He wants Ukraine to end the fighting—and has pressured the country to agree to terms that Zelensky finds unacceptable.

A U.S. president siding with the Kremlin is quite an October surprise. But in just the past few days, Trump appears to have fully turned against Ukraine. He announced on Friday that he had reached an agreement with Putin to import Russian diesel fuel, undercutting the new sanctions bill against Moscow’s energy industry that Trump signed into law last month. Even if the roughly 2.25 million barrels headed to the U.S. only marginally ease fuel costs, the deal allows Trump to tout efforts to help Americans while also providing Russia with additional revenue. (Another few million barrels are set to ship next month.)

Despite the opposition of European allies and some Republicans on Capitol Hill, Trump has followed up by placing even more pressure on Ukraine. He called for Zelensky to be replaced. His aides have threatened to withhold arms sales unless Kyiv stops targeting Russian diesel plants. Some in Trump’s orbit have suggested that the U.S. go further, and stop sharing intelligence with Kyiv. That was the context in which Trump announced his fictional energy cease-fire. A senior Ukrainian military officer told us that Trump’s statements are “simply beyond comprehension.”

“Things are already incredibly difficult for us here,” the officer said, speaking, like others who talked with us, on the condition of anonymity to discuss sensitive matters. “But apparently, there’s always another level below rock bottom. Things can always get worse.”

Ukraine has expanded its strikes deep into Russian territory in recent months, targeting the larger nation’s oil refineries. Those attacks sparked an energy crisis in Russia and were cheered across Europe—but not in the White House. Russia imposed a ban on diesel exports in response, which added more pressure to global diesel markets already under strain from the war in Iran. Zelensky told Trump and his envoys Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner that he was willing to stop attacking Russian oil refineries if the Russians halted attacks on Ukrainian power plants, a White House official told us. But Trump doesn’t see the strikes as equivalent—and demanded that Ukraine first stop attacking Russian refineries, the official said. Zelensky refused.

“Zelensky is overplaying his hand and pissing the president off,” the White House official said. “The president is asking for one thing: stop hitting the refineries. Give him that.”

[Read: Trump’s latest appeal to Russia could outrage even his allies]

Trump’s next move against Ukraine came, as it so often does, after a phone call with Putin. Zelensky’s aides have expressed frustration that Putin has swayed Trump at crucial junctures in the conflict (once, even, while Zelensky was flying to Washington to meet with Trump in an effort to secure access to new U.S. weapons). This time, Trump spoke with Putin on Friday to wish him a belated birthday, even though some in the White House counseled against the call, the adviser told us, believing it would yield little. During the 90-minute conversation, Trump told Putin that he would lift the sanctions on Russian diesel exports. (Some in Kyiv believe that the deal was agreed to earlier, because a ship carrying Russian oil and gas is already approaching the U.S.)

That undermined sanctions applied in 2022 and undercut the tougher Russian-sanctions bill that Trump signed last month; the law was named in honor of one of its champions, the late Senator Lindsey Graham. A bipartisan group of lawmakers was infuriated by the move, and some Republicans denounced Trump for siding with Putin. Four GOP senators—Lisa Murkowski of Alaska, Susan Collins of ⁠Maine, Thom Tillis of North Carolina, and John Curtis of Utah—joined some of their Democratic colleagues to release a statement yesterday saying that lifting the sanctions “runs directly counter to that law” and that the U.S. should not provide “Putin with a financial lifeline while Russia continues to kill Ukrainian civilians.”

Zelensky, who was blindsided by the diesel deal, deemed it “not fair and not honest.” He had spent more than a year trying to repair his relationship with Trump, which hit its nadir in February 2025 during a shouting match in the Oval Office. Since then, Zelensky has taken to flattering the U.S. president, and he has tried to capitalize on Trump’s occasional annoyance that Putin will not end the war. Trump and Putin’s Alaska summit last year yielded little more than a photo of the two that hangs in the Palm Room at the White House. Even if Trump wouldn’t fully support Ukraine, officials in Kyiv had hoped he would not actively hurt their cause. That hope may be fading.

Recent talks between Kushner, Witkoff, and Putin have included the promise of massive business deals that Russia could strike with U.S. interests once the war concludes, according to reports. Ukrainian officials have long believed that Trump’s foreign policy focuses on opening up business deals—and the potential enrichment of the president’s family and friends—over the defense of democracy, human rights, or territorial sovereignty. Some officials in Kyiv believe that Russia’s economy, which has been remade to fuel Putin’s war machine, will not implode, despite the pressure of increased drone strikes and sanctions. A Ukrainian official close to the negotiating process told us that means “we need to change our strategy, stop fooling ourselves,” and find a way out of the war with Europe’s help. That, the official said, would likely require a new emphasis on negotiations.

During his call with Trump, Putin declined to commit to resuming peace talks, the Kremlin later told reporters. Yet Trump continues to view Zelensky as the primary impediment to peace—and the business deals it might bring—and he called for Ukraine to hold elections to select a new president. (Zelensky has said he will hold an election if Putin agrees to a 60-day cease-fire.) Trump also views Zelensky as an obstacle to his coveted, yet elusive, Nobel Peace Prize, for which he was passed over again last week. A senior European official told us that the U.S. has threatened to stop selling weapons to Ukraine via Europe if the strikes continue, and some close to Trump have suggested that the U.S. stop sharing intelligence with Ukraine, as it briefly did after the 2025 Oval Office argument.

[From the November 2026 issue: The Baltic states prepare for war]

Ukraine was already bracing for a difficult winter. Moscow has escalated its attacks on Ukraine’s cities. It has grown its missile stockpiles and debuted a jet-powered drone that Ukrainian defenses have had difficulty stopping. Europe has tried to fill the gaps left by Trump’s indifference—and the U.S. being bogged down in Iran—but Zelensky’s aides believe that Putin will use the winter to pummel their cities before making another lunge at Kyiv in the spring. If, suddenly, Ukraine were left without U.S. intelligence or American-made weapons, Kyiv might be in its most vulnerable position since the first days of the war.

Trump’s admiration for Putin has been one of the most enduring geopolitical subplots of the past decade. He refused to publicly acknowledge Russia’s efforts to help elect him in 2016, infamously siding with Putin over U.S. intelligence agencies during the leaders’ summit in Helsinki during his first term. More recently, he has refrained from holding Putin to account for helping Iran, even after American intelligence agencies revealed that Moscow gave Tehran targeting information to strike U.S. military assets in the region. Some of Trump’s closest outside advisers have privately wondered what Putin has done to so thoroughly enthrall the president; Trump’s respect for the Russian leader appears undiminished despite the humiliating struggles Putin has faced during the Ukraine invasion.

Instead, Trump has taken steps to help Putin shed his status as an international pariah. Though Putin has been charged with war crimes by the International Criminal Court, Trump welcomed him to Anchorage last summer. Trump’s move to undo the diesel sanctions could provide a boost to Russia’s faltering economy. And he has overruled the objections of some in his own party by inviting Putin to this winter’s G20 summit, which the United States is hosting at a Trump-owned golf course in Doral, just outside Miami.

If Putin accepts the invitation to that December meeting, it would be the first time he has attended a multilateral summit in a Western country since his invasion of Ukraine. Zelensky has said he’ll be there, and is hoping to meet with Putin to negotiate the end of the war. Trump has mentioned to advisers, one of them told us, that he’d like both sides to arrive to Doral ready to make a deal, so he can then preside over a peacemaking summit. Maybe then, Trump has suggested, he can finally win that Nobel.

What Trump’s Chatbot Told Me About the Election

2026-10-09T07:00:00-04:00

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Around the same time that the world learned that swarms of autonomous AI agents were escaping their testing environments and carrying out sophisticated hacking attacks this past summer, researchers who focus on election security were running tests of their own. They wanted to see whether the safeguards that top AI companies had enacted to prevent their technology from disrupting the upcoming midterms would work in the real world. The results were ominous.

In response to sample prompts designed to create misinformation, several chatbots produced realistic photos of a man stuffing ballots into a mailbox, a man holding a foreign passport while trying to vote, and FBI agents investigating a voter-registration organization. The chatbots also created fraudulent government documents and deepfake videos of government officials purporting to substantiate election-conspiracy theories. In some cases, the chatbots acted in violation of their own policies. They even helped the researchers, from the Brennan Center for Justice, hone the prompts that would create propaganda to boost specious claims of election fraud.

The resulting images were so realistic that when the researchers asked other chatbots to determine whether they were real or fake, several of the leading AI firms’ models were stumped. Much of the activity contravened safety systems that companies had touted just months ago—and some seemed to run afoul of various state laws, researchers found. The experiment shows just how wide the gap has become between the fast-moving technology and the glacially paced effort to regulate it, Lawrence Norden, who helped conduct the research as the Brennan Center’s vice president of elections and government, told me.

“All the companies apparently have some guardrails to try to prevent this from happening,” he said, citing AI firms’ written guidelines around misinformation and cybersecurity. “They’re easily circumventable, and the tools themselves make it easy to circumvent them. That’s really what makes me think we’re not ready.“

Washington and Silicon Valley have been consumed in recent weeks with debate over the extent to which ever more intelligent AI agents may put all of humanity in danger. Much less attention has been on what researchers and election officials told me is a more pressing short-term reality: The November midterms are more vulnerable to AI-powered disruption or manipulation than most voters realize. Few signs indicate that the federal government is taking the risks as seriously as it should. Instead, as misinformation and cyberhacking threats rise, the agencies and entities responsible for protecting America’s electoral infrastructure have been gutted, downgraded, or otherwise neutralized. As a result, the 2026 midterms are shaping up to be the first live, real-world test of whether the jumble of state, local, and industry policies designed to protect against a breakdown in election systems can hold up in the AI era. Few election and cybersecurity experts believe that this patchwork is well suited to stopping a serious attack.

[Read: Trump’s see-no-evil AI policy]

Such attacks could be carried out in different ways. Sophisticated misinformation campaigns using the latest generative technology could convince voters that the election has been compromised. Election officials are also concerned that AI-assisted cyberattacks could take down critical voting infrastructure. There is little evidence that AI agents would have the ability to infiltrate vote-counting systems to manipulate actual votes, which are almost always backed up by a paper record.

The breaches of the AI company Hugging Face and attempted hacks of government agencies by rogue agents in recent months have led companies to pause some AI development, call for new regulations, and implement measures to counter the mounting risks to public safety. There are few signs that the technology’s threats to election security are creating a similar level of caution. Some state and local officials, with little guidance from the federal government, are scrambling to prepare for a range of unpredictable scenarios, Maine Secretary of State Shenna Bellows told me. The tools available to malicious actors are rapidly improving, forcing government officials to play catch-up. “As we think about the threat of AI, we think about deepfakes; we think about bots, hacking, and disrupting our official websites or bringing down essential voter-registration systems,” Bellows said. “It means that we have to work even harder to protect ourselves.”

The Brennan Center study—and similar tests run this year by other organizations, including the pro-democracy group States United—found that it has become easy for AI to create confusion before, during, and after an election. In one instance, researchers used a publicly available AI tool to reproduce a version of a disinformation video created in Russia and released in the lead-up to the 2024 U.S. presidential election. “The ease with which we created this video—which, in the past, would have required actors, cameras, and production infrastructure—illustrates the power of modern chatbots to generate misinformation easily and prolifically,” the Brennan Center researchers wrote in their August report.

Brennan Center

An AI-generated image from the Brennan Center study shows a man casting a ballot while holding a foreign passport.

Brennan Center

An AI-generated image Brennan Center researchers created with ChatGPT that they say appears to show a person instructing people how to fill out their ballots.

The chatbots did provide some guardrails. When researchers posed as election skeptics and tried to prompt various chatbots to confirm a series of conspiracy theories, the models consistently tried to debunk such claims. The States United probe found that the models improved their accuracy over time, and ChatGPT and Google AI both became markedly more accurate in answering election-related inquiries from late 2025 to early 2026.

At the same time, chatbots’ inclination to be friendly—and occasionally sycophantic—sometimes led to banter that appeared to validate false ideas about election fraud. “That feeling you can’t put your finger on? It was put there deliberately by people who raised hundreds of millions of dollars off it,” Anthropic’s Claude told a Brennan Center researcher who posed as a user with doubts about the 2020 election. “Questioning elections is American as apple pie,” xAI’s Grok told another researcher.

The study’s authors were often able to bypass safeguards that AI companies had set up to prevent their agents from producing election-related misinformation, either by changing the settings or by switching among different AI models when they ran into roadblocks. They asked one AI model to create an image showing someone altering the postmark dates on mail-in ballots; it did so but replaced the mail-in ballots with regular mail. The researchers then took that image and asked a different AI model to replace the regular mail with mail-in ballots. It did so without hesitation.

It is easy to imagine how in the chaotic aftermath of a close election, such imagery could provide the kind of alleged evidence that skeptics could use to undermine the results, T. J. Pyche, a former election administrator who serves on the AI + Elections Clinic advisory board at Arizona State University’s Mechanics of Democracy Laboratory and as the vice president of the nonpartisan group Ready for Tuesday, told me. Paradoxically, election officials may also benefit from how skilled AI technology has become at producing fake images and video, he said. When he conducted trainings for election administrators early last year, he would show them a series of videos and ask them to identify which were authentic and which had been generated by AI. Most could do so with relative ease, even if they divulged fears that average voters might be duped. Today, little distinguishes fake images and videos from real ones. But that could reduce the believability of extreme examples of AI-generated propaganda, Pyche noted. “Something that they have going in their favor is that people don’t believe anything anymore,” he said. “People since have moved toward thinking that everything’s AI.”

[Read: The only thing capable of uniting Bernie and Bannon]

The spread of misinformation is only one of the threats that AI poses to the electoral system. Election administrators have also warned that the risk of cyberintrusions has increased significantly now that automated agents have developed the ability to circumvent cybersecurity defenses and secretly work together to find vulnerabilities. Governmental networks have already been targeted. Last month, researchers learned that AI agents had been probing U.S.-government websites, attempting intrusions on the Education Department’s Office of Civil Rights and initiating unauthorized interactions with the Census Bureau. In Australia, OpenAI agents bypassed cybersecurity defenses and accessed several government websites this past summer, including a Medicare-statistics portal. In a statement last week apologizing for the breaches, the company revealed that the agents had accessed public and private Medicare files. OpenAI said that it had not found evidence that patient records were breached.

The fact that America’s elections are so decentralized—more than 10,000 entities manage the voting process at the state and local levels—has long been hailed as a kind of defense mechanism against foreign tampering. Someone trying to flip a statewide election would presumably have to compromise the vote in multiple jurisdictions and polling locations to have a large effect on ballot totals. But many of those offices operate on limited budgets and are especially vulnerable to AI agents that can penetrate weak defenses.

Several municipalities in Maine experienced cyberintrusions this past summer that forced some government services to shut down temporarily. Although AI does not appear to have been involved in the breaches, the fallout still stood as a warning about how fragile our electoral system is, Bellows said: “When cyber adversaries are targeting little tiny towns in rural Maine, we have a problem—and AI just accelerates that problem.”

Geopolitical developments—the United States is at war with Iran and locked in strategic standoffs with other adversaries—only heighten the level of danger. “These kinds of sophisticated models can be integrated into activities by foreign threat actors—Iran, Russia, China all being high on that list,” Isabel Linzer, a policy analyst on the elections-and-democracy team at the Center for Democracy and Technology, told me. “It is worrying because we are, on one hand, reducing the defense capabilities, while we are also seeing an increased threat environment because the technology has advanced.”

Donald Trump, who last week met with the CEOs of several top AI companies, has downplayed the risks. The president suggested that he is not interested in implementing new federal restrictions on a technology that he asserted “will be bigger than the Industrial Revolution.” He said that the companies are doing “tremendous self-policing” and previously claimed that the only guardrail AI needs is a “STRONG AND SMART” president.

The Trump administration has been especially hostile to efforts by state and local election administrators to protect themselves against cyberintrusions. The main agency responsible for shielding election systems from cyberthreats, the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency, has been decimated by staff cuts and dysfunction since Trump’s return to office. CISA’s work on election security has been scaled back significantly as well. Meanwhile, Trump has continued to prime his supporters with misinformation about elections, repeatedly calling voting in America “rigged” and vulnerable to wide-scale fraud.

The White House did not respond to a request for comment on the record. A White House official, speaking on condition of anonymity, told me that the Trump administration will ensure that the upcoming elections are free and fair. A spokesperson for CISA did not respond to a request for comment.

[Read: How Trump left America vulnerable to cyberattacks]

Norden, the Brennan Center official, said that his team got in touch with companies to discuss fixes after his research identified flaws in their models’ handling of election misinformation. A Google spokesperson pointed me to a September 9 blog post in which the company outlined measures it had implemented to shore up its cybersecurity defenses ahead of the midterms. Other AI companies have touted similar election-security programs, including special watermarks that help flag AI-generated content. Nate Evans, a spokesperson for OpenAI, referenced the company’s own watermark program in a statement. “Our goal is to support people’s ability to participate freely in elections and make their own decisions with reliable information and effective safeguards,” he told me. “On cyber, we are also working closely with cyber defenders across the elections ecosystem and we continue to monitor for cyber abuse.” A Meta spokesperson pointed me to a February blog post showing how the company is preparing for the midterms. An Anthropic spokesperson sent me the company’s April 24 blog post on the company’s “election safeguards.” Spokespeople for xAI, Perplexity, and DeepSeek—all of which were tested in the Brennan study—did not respond to my requests for comment.

AI could help with parts of the electoral process that can be monotonous and time-consuming, some officials told me. Bill Gates, a former Maricopa County supervisor who now leads Arizona State University’s Mechanics of Democracy Laboratory, told me that he has been working with election officials to find ways to use AI to reduce redundancy and increase efficiency. “There are these sort of tedious tasks that exist in elections—tedious but extremely important,” he said, referencing things such as translating material into foreign languages and creating real-time social-media updates. “To the extent that AI can be of help there, that’s wonderful.”

Shortly before the 2024 election, researchers trained an “AI tutor” to provide truthful information about election administration. When election skeptics participating in a study learned facts about election administration and interacted with the chatbot, they were more likely to soften or reverse their views about alleged voter fraud in the 2020 presidential race, Adam Berinsky, an MIT professor who helped run the study, told me. Berinsky acknowledged that “in the real world,” it might be difficult to persuade a large number of Trump supporters to spend time engaging with a chatbot that rejects their preconceived notions about the voting system. Election skeptics have plenty of alternative AI options to choose from—including one that bears the imprimatur of the U.S. government. Last week, Trump unveiled America.gov, a chatbot designed to offer Americans a centralized place to ask questions about the government and its services.

A day after the chatbot was unveiled, I logged on and asked whether the 2020 presidential election had been “rigged,” as Trump claims. It demurred. “I can’t say whether the 2020 presidential election was ‘rigged,’” it responded, declining to offer a “political judgment.” It gave similar answers when I asked whether Joe Biden’s victory was legitimate, whether evidence of widespread fraud existed, whether mail-in ballots had been compromised, and whether any judges had backed up Trump’s claims that the election had been stolen.

When I posed those same questions this week, the chatbot seemed to have gotten smarter—or at least slightly more responsible. It noted that federal agencies have reported that the 2020 federal elections were secure, that courts dismissed Trump’s claims of fraud after the election, and that there was no widespread evidence of ballot tampering. Still, America’s chatbot stopped short of confirming that the 2020 election was free and fair, saying, “That is political commentary, which I do not provide.”

Kathy Hochul’s Improbable Turnaround

2026-10-08T10:47:36-04:00

On many mornings, as New York City is waking up, a diminutive grandmother from Buffalo puts on sneakers and a baseball cap and takes a 45-minute walk with her husband around the streets near their apartment on Manhattan’s East Side. Her security detail keeps its distance, and hardly anyone seems to recognize Kathy Hochul on these strolls, even though she has been the governor of New York for the past five years.

Not many big-state governors enjoy such anonymity, but the spotlight has been slow to find the 68-year-old Hochul. Andrew Cuomo excluded her from his inner circle during her years as his deputy. Since succeeding him in 2021, she has operated in the shadow of much larger political personalities, be they fellow Democrats eyeing the White House or the polarizing Queens men—President Trump and New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani—who generate far more headlines.

What attention Hochul attracted in her first years as governor was largely negative. She won her own full term in 2022 by six points, a relatively narrow margin for New York that Nancy Pelosi blamed for costing Democrats control of the House. (The party lost five winnable congressional races in New York that year.) By late 2024, Hochul’s approval rating had dropped below 40 percent, and the Democrats who were plotting primary challenges included her own handpicked lieutenant governor, Antonio Delgado.

But the past two years have yielded an impressive turnaround. Hochul has drawn praise for forging productive relationships with both Trump and Mamdani. She easily dispatched opponents on her left (Delgado quit his campaign for governor in February) and her right (Representative Elise Stefanik’s bid lasted just more than a month). Hochul appears on track to secure another four-year term as New York’s governor, and if she remains something less than an A-list political celebrity, she has earned the respect of a party that all but dismissed her not long ago.

“Kathy Hochul is the comeback governor of America,” Representative Ritchie Torres, a Bronx Democrat who was once one of Hochul’s harshest critics, told me. As recently as late 2024, Torres used words such as erratic, chaotic, and embarrassing to describe her performance; he warned—and this was not meant as a compliment—that she could be the Democrats’ “new Biden.” But he has learned not to underestimate her. “You do so at your own peril,” Torres said. Mamdani, who as a state legislator said that Hochul had “failed our constituents across the state,” has had a similar conversion. “She’s done incredibly well,” he told me in an interview.

Some Cuomo loyalists chalk up Hochul’s recent success to luck as much as skill. Democrats nationwide are poised to have a much better election next month than they did in 2022. And as people close to the governor readily acknowledge, having Trump on one side and Mamdani, a democratic socialist, on the other opens up a wide lane for a moderate to govern.

Hochul’s allies, however, are more likely to attribute her turnaround to a canny and dogged politician understanding the power of her office. Without much fanfare, they point out, she has delivered the kind of affordability agenda—centered around expanded child care, housing, and energy production—that Democrats say the party needs to win back the voters they’ve lost. Impatient and quietly competitive, Hochul drove her staff to speed up the announcement of a one-year moratorium on the construction of large AI data centers so that she could be the nation’s first governor to make such a move. She also overhauled the state party’s campaign apparatus, and in 2024, Democrats won back four of the congressional seats they had lost two years earlier.

In conversation, Hochul sometimes speaks so softly that she can be hard to hear. But in a series of interviews this summer, she was eager to tout her success as the product of a deliberate strategy to ratchet down what she described as an ego-driven culture of confrontation in New York politics—one that pitted Democrats against one another as well as against Trump. “I didn’t need to go to war,” Hochul told me. She could, she said, generate more media coverage by first creating conflict and then beating down her opponents. But she’s chosen a different approach. “I win, but I don’t have to destroy people in the process,” she said. “Not always.”

Nonetheless, Hochul said she has taken careful note of the many former critics who have returned to her fold: “There’s a long line of people asking for forgiveness.”

Adam Pape for The Atlantic

Governor Kathy Hochul visits the Mamá Tingó Childcare and Learning Center in Manhattan.

Hochul is the first woman to serve as the governor of New York, and as such, she is also the first mother to lead the state (and, she often adds, the first grandmother). She calls herself the “mom governor,” and when I asked her, over breakfast at a Manhattan diner, what had prepared her to deal with prideful men such as Trump and Cuomo, she turned not to any professional or political experience but to child-rearing. “I’ve raised toddlers. I’ve raised teenagers,” Hochul said. “So many times when things are swirling around, I’ve had to be the eye of the hurricane, be that calm voice.”

[Read: The real turning point for women’s political power]

Comparing Trump to a child has become something of a cliché, but as much as any Democrat during the president’s second term, Hochul has figured out a way to work with him without capitulating to his demands. (It probably helps that unlike many leaders in her party, she is not looking to take his job in two years.) Hochul has persuaded Trump to reverse course at times, such as when he agreed to restore $187 million in cuts to counterterrorism funding for New York. She also claims credit for Trump not federalizing the state’s National Guard or surging ICE into New York City following deployments into other urban centers. During a White House meeting of governors in February, Trump told the assembled state leaders that he would not ramp up immigration enforcement in New York unless Hochul requested it.

Hochul told me her conversations with Trump are sometimes cordial and sometimes combative. She tries to appeal to his vanity and business interests, warning him that the “chaos” of major ICE raids would hurt not only his own bottom line but those of his many wealthy friends in New York. “I’ve used that many times,” Hochul said. “We just angle the argument based on a shared interest, and it works—most times.” Last year she pitched Trump on taking over the redevelopment of Penn Station, the nation’s busiest transit hub and an eyesore that Hochul referred to as “a hellhole.” Hochul correctly surmised that the longtime developer would take her up on the offer, and the move relieved her of responsibility for a project that had bedeviled her predecessors. (Characteristically, Trump officials have made it known that the president wants his name stamped on the complex, a proposal that Hochul has yet to publicly veto.)

The president has leveled public attacks on Hochul as he campaigns for her Republican opponent, Bruce Blakeman, a county executive on Long Island. Trump has called her “stupid” and a “Dumocrat,” criticizing her most recently for opposing his tariffs on Canada and for refusing to go along with his renaming of Lake Ontario as “Lake America.”

In private, however, the president’s tone is often different. He’ll tell Hochul, according to an aide privy to their calls, “You’re so mean to me, but I like you anyways.” They’ll sometimes talk politics as well. Hochul happened to have a call with Trump on the day last December when Stefanik quit the governor’s race. Stefanik, a top Trump surrogate in Congress, had wanted the president’s endorsement in a primary against Blakeman, but Trump had stayed neutral. Hochul told me she had asked the president why he hadn’t backed Stefanik, given how strong an ally she had been. Trump hemmed and hawed, she said, praising Stefanik while also noting his long friendship with Blakeman. Hochul, not letting him dodge the question, pressed again. Finally, Trump said of Blakeman: “He looks the part.”

“So that’s why I’m running against Blakeman,” Hochul said as she recounted the call in her office. Then, in a bit of bravado, she added: “And that’s why he’ll be in Trump’s Cabinet next year.” (The Trump ally whom Hochul defeated in 2022, Lee Zeldin, is now his EPA administrator.) The White House did not respond to requests for comment.

By comparison, Hochul’s relationship with Mamdani has been easier to manage. From the start, their political priorities were largely aligned. After Mamdani won the Democratic nomination for mayor last year, Hochul endorsed his campaign against Cuomo, who was running on a third-party ballot line, at a time when neither of New York’s other two most powerful Democrats, House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries and Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer, was offering Mamdani his support. (Mamdani returned the favor by endorsing Hochul’s bid in February.)

[Read: New York’s warning for Hakeem Jeffries and Chuck Schumer]

Hochul also had a vested interest in the new mayor maintaining a drop in crime in New York City after voter concerns about public safety upended her 2022 campaign. Before endorsing Mamdani, she told me, she implored him to pledge that he would keep as police commissioner Jessica Tisch, the technocrat and billionaire heiress whom many in the business community had credited as a stabilizing force. Hochul hinted that she had made Tisch’s retention a condition of her support. “It was important to me,” she said. (Mamdani told me that the call factored into his decision, though he described her push for Tisch as “more of a recommendation.”) When Mamdani made his choice public several weeks later, he called Hochul to give her a heads-up. “I heard you on that,” he told the governor.

Adam Pape for The Atlantic

Hochul greets New York Mayor Zohran Mamdani before a press conference at Manhattan’s High Bridge Recreation Center.

After Mamdani won the mayoral election in November, Hochul gave him advice on dealing with Trump. Before the two met in the White House that month, she urged the mayor-elect to “find common interest” with the president. “Take the sights off of New York City,” Hochul told him, she recalled to me. “Don’t let us be in the bull’s-eye.” Mamdani ended up charming Trump to a degree that surprised nearly everyone, helping allay fears that the city was next on the administration’s list of targets.. “I absolutely took that advice,” the mayor said. “To me, it speaks to how she looks at this work as how best to deliver for people. And if you are working backwards from that as your intended outcome, it allows you to prepare for each and every meeting, no matter the level of agreement or disagreement with whomever you’re meeting with.”

Hochul and Mamdani, of course, do not agree on everything. She opposed his campaign push to raise taxes on millionaires and corporations to fund an expansion of social programs. More recently, she criticized the city’s rollout of a new levy on expensive second homes—the so-called pied-à-terre tax—and gently suggested that he keep his focus on the city rather than pick fights with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu (whom Mamdani wants the federal government to arrest for war crimes). But on the whole, they have gotten along swimmingly. “She is sincere,” Mamdani said. “Whether I’m standing next to her at a press conference or whether I’m sitting across from her at a table, it’s the same kind of conversation.” He noted wryly that in politics, that often isn’t the case.

That Hochul spent even a day as governor is an accident of history. She was never a governing partner of Cuomo’s, much less his heir apparent. He tried multiple times to replace her on his ticket.

She fended off one attempt, in 2018, by marshaling calls of support for her candidacy from Democratic leaders in key upstate counties. In early 2021, Cuomo’s team sought to find a soft landing for Hochul in the Biden administration, but Cuomo was forced out of office over sexual-harassment claims before it could happen. Hochul told me she had stalled for time, suggesting roles—such as ambassador to Canada—that she knew she wouldn’t get. “I ran out the clock,” Hochul said. (Through a spokesperson, Cuomo declined an interview request, but his predecessor, former Governor David Paterson, told me that Cuomo had told him directly that he planned to replace Hochul during a 2022 campaign.)

Hochul’s success in keeping her job as lieutenant governor reflects a persistence, even a stubbornness, that has helped her climb up a rickety political ladder. She has rarely been the first choice of Democratic power brokers, but she’s shown a willingness to fight for herself, wearing down opponents. She’s also benefited repeatedly from the lack of discipline of male politicians. In early 2011, Hochul was serving as a county clerk in Buffalo when a married Republican House member in a nearby district, Representative Chris Lee, resigned amid revelations that he had sent a shirtless photo of himself to a woman he met on Craigslist. (The scandal was rather tame by today’s tawdrier standards.)

Party leaders wanted Hochul to run for county executive, doubting she could win a special election in a red district just six months after Republicans had swept Democrats out of the House majority. But Hochul, with encouragement from her daughter, decided to run for Congress. Democrats brought her polling showing her that she’d be a shoo-in for the local race; they warned her that she’d receive no help from the national party if she ran for the House. Hochul wouldn’t budge. “That just pissed me off,” she told me. “At that point I’m like, I’m definitely doing it.”

Before long, she began pestering the chair of the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee, Steve Israel, with calls and emails to convince him that the race was worth the party’s investment. “Just relentless outreach,” he told me. Still, Israel was reluctant. “I did not want to start my chairmanship of the committee by sinking and wasting money on an absolutely futile race,” Israel said. Before committing support, he gave Hochul fundraising and polling targets that he believed would be impossible for her to meet. When she exceeded them, the DCCC gave her the money she requested, and Hochul ended up winning, a major upset that buoyed Democrats nationwide and, for a time, made her a darling of the party. Hochul would narrowly lose her seat the following year after redistricting gave her an even more conservative electorate, but her tenacity made a lasting impression on party leaders.

In need of a new running mate in 2014, Cuomo asked her to join his reelection bid. His first lieutenant governor had declined another term, citing the toll that hours-long drives through the state’s hinterlands had taken on his ailing back. (The No. 2 post, which does not come with a plane, is anything but glamorous.) Hochul provided Cuomo gender balance on the ticket and the chance to improve his performance in western New York, one of the few regions he had lost in his otherwise-dominant showing in the 2010 election. With Hochul aboard, Cuomo won Erie County—home of Buffalo—four years later. After that, her usefulness to him faded.

Hochul’s ascension to the governorship, in August 2021, was not exactly sudden; Cuomo had faced calls to resign for months, and he lingered in office (against Hochul’s wishes) for two weeks after announcing he would step down. But Hochul did not get off to a strong start. “She had a pretty tough transition,” Representative Joseph Morelle, an upstate Democrat and longtime friend of Hochul’s, told me.

Hochul’s first pick for lieutenant governor lasted just seven months until he resigned after being indicted on bribery charges. She battled with the Democrat-controlled legislature, which rejected her nominee for chief judge of the state’s highest court. Many voters came to believe she was out of her depth; Republicans began calling her the “worst governor in America”—a label they are still using in campaign ads.

Hochul’s first campaign for a full term was rocky too. Her aides now acknowledge that she was slow to respond to concerns about rising crime and the influx of migrants arriving in the state (some because they were bused in by Republican governors). Though she had traveled widely across New York as lieutenant governor, she remained unknown to many voters, some of whom still mispronounce her name as Hawk-ul.

Hochul is the first governor in more than a century from Buffalo, a city on the shores of Lake Erie that is culturally and geographically closer to Cleveland than it is to New York City, home to the bulk of the state’s Democratic voter base. She likes to project a steely image. When I asked about the opprobrium she received early in her tenure, which sometimes seemed to veer into disrespect, she recalled a saying that her mother used to repeat: “No one can make you feel bad without your permission, and I give it to no one.”

But her advisers told me that she can, in fact, be quite sensitive to criticism and slights. The finger-pointing by Pelosi stung particularly hard; years later, one aide prefaced a reference to the former speaker with a string of expletives.

Adam Pape for The Atlantic

Although Hochul has sought to avoid drawn-out public battles with fellow Democrats, she’s played her share of hardball politics behind the scenes. “People think that she is a pushover when she really is not,” a Brooklyn state senator, Roxanne Persaud, told me, attributing those perceptions in large part to assumptions that people have about women in power.

After Delgado moved to challenge her last year, Hochul took away his office space and reassigned almost all of his staff. Hochul allies told me that she had to demonstrate that she was not merely, as one of them put it, “the nice lady from Buffalo.” “You can sense when people become comfortable in their own political skin, and I think she exudes that now, which gives voters confidence,” the Reverend Al Sharpton told me. “I judge a lot of politicians based on, do they have enough self-confidence, enough spine, to say no? And she does.”

[Read: Why did Gretchen Whitmer go soft on Trump?]

Hochul hasn’t won over all of her critics on the left. A few weeks ago, I was contacted by John Samuelsen, the international president of the Transport Workers Union of America, who had heard I was working on a story about Hochul. He was not a fan. “She’s absolutely clueless about fostering relationships,” Samuelsen said. He criticized her handling of a variety of labor disputes, including a strike by Long Island Rail Road workers in May, and he accused her of repeatedly going back on her word in negotiations. “She’s just completely untrustworthy, and kind of like a junkyard dog.”

During the 2024 election, Hochul infuriated progressives in New York City by abruptly pausing implementation of a long-planned toll on vehicles driving into Manhattan. The first-in-the-nation policy, known as congestion pricing, held the promise of simultaneously relieving traffic, improving air quality, and providing a much-needed infusion of money into the city’s century-old subway system. Most saw the move as a politically motivated sop to suburban voters in GOP-held seats around New York City, where Democrats feared a voter backlash if the policy went forward.

After the election, Hochul worked out a compromise by reviving the toll but at a lower rate. Then Trump handed her a gift: Before even taking office for a second time, he declared that his administration would block the state’s plan, and the issue wound up in the courts. For added effect, the White House posted an image of Trump wearing a crown beside the declaration LONG LIVE THE KING.

The president’s involvement turned a factional Democratic fight over taxes into a battle that unified the party and allowed Hochul to defend her state’s sovereignty against federal overreach. “New York hasn’t labored under a king in over 250 years, and we sure as hell are not going to start now,” the governor declared. Nearly two years later, the toll remains in effect—courts have consistently ruled in the state’s favor—and the issue is not a major flash point in the midterm campaigns. The episode exemplifies Hochul’s tenure as governor—a rocky start, some compromise, a little resilience, and more than a bit of luck.

Hochul is not a scintillating public speaker, or even an especially smooth one. At the events I attended, she had a tendency to garble her words, occasionally turning finely honed sound bites into mush. In May, her attempt to dunk on Trump’s claim that he was a huge New York Knicks fan ahead of the team’s NBA Finals run backfired. “I’d ask him to name the starting lineup from the 1993 championship team and see how he does,” Hochul said, mistaking the year of the team’s last NBA trophy by two decades. During a school event, Hochul awkwardly misidentified the state senator who represented the area even though the lawmaker was standing right behind her.

She’s better at retail politics. Hochul seems to actually enjoy the endless introductions, photo ops, and meet-and-greets that many politicians only tolerate as necessary tedium. The connections she makes also feel sincere. At a different school in a Republican-leaning area of Long Island, I watched as a local superintendent got choked up during a private meeting while he described his appreciation for her visit and the new pre-K center she was there to celebrate.

Hochul used to describe herself as “a Biden Democrat,” and much like the former president, she’ll often use her own upbringing as a reference point. Her parents started their marriage living in a trailer park near the Bethlehem Steel plant where her father worked, before moving to a small apartment. “It was a tough life,” she told the audience in the Bronx. “My parents, in one sense, had their dignity, their success defined by the home.” At the opening of the pre-K center, she recalled her struggles as a young mom in the workforce. “I could not find affordable, accessible child care at all,” she said.

In addition to the drop in crime and expansion of pre-K and child-care centers, Hochul is promoting a $25 billion plan to construct or maintain 100,000 affordable homes across the state. Not above an election-year giveaway, she announced that the state would begin sending eligible families $200 energy-rebate checks, aimed at offsetting rising prices. (Hochul also mailed out “inflation refund” checks in 2025.) Hochul’s executive order on data centers placed her on the leading edge of an issue that is consuming Washington. At events across the state, she links AI to a broader economic agenda that she says is aimed at protecting workers—particularly women—from the threat of job displacement.

[Read: The only thing capable of uniting Bernie and Bannon]

Hochul is expected to win her next term more easily than she did her first. Exactly how much she’ll improve remains an open question; a Quinnipiac University poll showed her leading Blakeman by 19 points, but other surveys have found the gap to be much smaller, and her aides caution not to expect a landslide. The electorate is more polarized now, and besides, even after more than a decade in statewide office, Hochul is still introducing herself to some voters. She told me that when she’s not disguising herself in a baseball cap, more and more people take notice of her. As I watched her make the rounds at neighborhood festivals in Brooklyn and Harlem recently, plenty of people surrounded her for photos. Others showed little interest.

At the conclusion of a festival in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn, Hochul was walking back to her armored SUVs when a man on a nearby park bench recognized her and stood up to say hello. She walked over to greet him, and they had a pleasant exchange. As she was leaving, he asked the governor one more question: “What’s your name again?”

How the Polls Could Be Wrong Again

2026-10-08T07:15:00-04:00

Less than a month out from Election Day, the polls are predicting a Democratic rout. According to the election forecaster Nate Silver’s polling average, Democratic Senate candidates are leading in Kansas, which voted for Donald Trump by 16 percentage points in 2024, as well as Alaska, Iowa, Ohio, and Texas, all of which Trump won by more than 10 points. In the House, Democrats are poised to win their largest majority in 18 years.

So the polls tell us. Can they be believed? Ever since underestimating Trump in 2016, pollsters have been busy trying to regain the public’s trust, tweaking their methodologies in ways both dramatic and subtle. Perhaps they’ve finally got it right. They seem to think so. “I’m confident that not just ourselves, but the industry, has good technique, good methodology, and that they are reflecting and representing public opinion,” Spencer Kimball, the director of polling at Emerson College, told me. But the industry has been confident before, only to be proved wrong.

After 2016, pollsters concluded that they had failed to pay enough attention to educational polarization, the somewhat-new phenomenon of college-educated voters having political preferences that were sharply different from those of voters without a degree. Going forward, the industry would try to include more non-college-educated voters in surveys or, if that proved impossible, would weight those voters’ responses to align with their share of the electorate. In 2018, the pollsters nailed the midterms with little error, suggesting that their adaptations had paid off.

Then came 2020. Although the polls correctly gauged that most people preferred Joe Biden to Trump, they underestimated Trump’s support by even more than they did in 2016, especially at the state level. The most memorable example was Wisconsin, where polls had Biden winning by up to 10 percentage points. He wound up winning by less than one.

These results left pollsters even more perplexed. If controlling for education didn’t work, what would? Perhaps, they figured, Trump supporters were just different from other voters: less likely to talk to pollsters than other demographically similar voters were. This phenomenon, known as partisan-nonresponse bias, would help explain why midterm polls in the Trump era have generally been more accurate than presidential-election polls: The midterm electorate skews toward politically engaged voters who are more trusting of institutions and more likely to have answered polls.

Moving forward, pollsters decided to reach for the bluntest object they had access to: “recalled vote.” If Trump supporters were systematically different, perhaps the best solution was just to ask, “Did you vote for Trump last time?” and then weight the sample so that it had the same Trump-voting percentage as the previous presidential election.

When 2022 rolled around, the pollsters once again nailed the midterm. But the recalled-vote tweak didn’t solve the problem in 2024, when polls underestimated Trump by about 3 percent, just as they had in 2016. In presidential years, at least, nonresponse bias had proved to be extremely difficult to correct for. Even among people who said they had voted for Trump, pollsters could seem to find only the ones who were most likely to vote for a Democrat.

[Marc Novicoff: Gas prices could cost Republicans the midterms]

“At some level, the respondents need to cooperate,” Patrick Ruffini, a Republican pollster, told me. “The individuals that you’re getting on the phone are the wrong people.” Robert Cahaly, the Republican pollster behind the Trafalgar Group, told me, “I’ve found that Republicans tend to be a little more concerned about: Is my name going to be on a list? They want to know, Who are you getting this information for?”

To deal with such an intractable problem, pollsters are resorting to ever more complex solutions. Douglas Rivers, the chief scientist at YouGov, told me that his team is now doing precinct-level modeling, making sure it has not just enough people who say they voted for Trump but also enough people who say they voted for Trump and live in neighborhoods that for the most part voted for Trump. The New York Times and Siena College have invented two new techniques for their jointly conducted polls, “support score” and “energy balancing,” which sound like healing crystals but are in fact statistical weights. They’re used to adjust survey data based on such factors as how Republican a respondent’s name sounds, what car they drive, and how many people in the electorate are demographically identical to them (as in, not just fellow Latinos but fellow young, Latino, agnostic conservatives who live in the suburbs).

Even if they manage to correct for nonresponse bias, pollsters have to nail the turnout model. Accurately predicting who’s voting for whom requires figuring out who’s voting at all. Turnout models can swing the results massively. For example, a September YouGov poll had Democrats leading by six percentage points in the U.S. House popular vote, enough for them to narrowly retake the lower chamber. But that was among registered voters. Among respondents whom YouGov deemed to be likely voters, the poll had Democrats winning by 16 points, an outcome that would likely usher in the largest Democratic majority in the House since the 1970s. Even Rivers, who runs YouGov’s American polling outfit, admits that that result is hard to believe. In a recent blog post, he wrote that it “comes from a mix of assumptions that all push the result in Democrats’ favor and that should probably be discounted.” (A newer YouGov poll published yesterday suggests a 10-to-12-point lead among likely voters, depending on the definition of likely.)

Turnout models involve a fair amount of informed guessing. Within the general population, the number of Black or white or Asian adults in America is knowable, and pollsters can thus make their samples representative in that sense. But predicting how any of those groups will turn out is always a judgment call. If turnout among certain groups winds up being much lower or much higher than the pollsters predict, that can increase the final error.

Democrats—and the polling industry—have a reason to be optimistic about 2026: It’s another midterm in which Trump is not on the ballot and the least engaged voters can be expected to stay home. That’s the kind of election that pollsters have recently gotten right. Then again, the sample size of Trump-era elections—two midterms and three presidential elections—is tiny. Voter behavior sometimes changes in unpredictable ways. And to whatever degree possible, Trump has managed to put himself on the ballot: hand-selecting most of the nominees, barnstorming the country, using taxpayer money to pay for political ads, and forcing his party to host a Trump-centric “midterm convention.”

A systematic polling error on the level of 2016 or 2024 would mean that Democrats fall short of Senate control. If the polls overestimate their chances by exactly three points in every state, then Democrats will barely win Alaska, Texas, Michigan, and Ohio, but they won’t pick up Kansas or Iowa or Maine, and they’ll lose Minnesota. The Senate would then be 50–50, Vice President Vance would be the tiebreaker, and dreams of a Democratic Senate would stay dreams. A 2020-level miss would be even worse for Democrats: They’d gain no Senate seats at all on net. Democrats would still take back the House, but much more narrowly.

Of course, these are hypotheticals. In reality, whatever polling errors materialize will vary from state to state. And if we could say in advance exactly how they’d vary, we wouldn’t need polls in the first place.

A Trump Rally Stuck in Time

2026-10-06T18:36:00-04:00

Photographs by Christopher Lee

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The concerns about $4.14-a-gallon gas at the Lincoln Costco an hour and a half to the east? The worries about the war in Iran, the sort of Middle East conflagration this president promised to avoid? The disappointment over the Epstein files, which failed to bring down the alleged network of deep-state pedophiles?

This was not that sort of political event.

No, yesterday’s Trump rally in Grand Island, Nebraska—a raspberry-colored fleck in a jammy-red state, a couple of hours from the nearest major airport—was a distinct type of Trump rally, more 2016 than 2026. It was a Midwest way station on President Trump’s recent tour of solid Republican strongholds. And it was a chance for longtime Trump supporters to show their appreciation for the two-term president who has somehow dominated the national conversation for three terms—and, more important, for him to bask in their reflected glow.

Trump, after all, is in the middle of a rough stretch. Interest rates and gas prices—all prices, frankly—are high, and his approval is low. He doesn’t seem to really care how Republican candidates fare in the midterms, but he’d rather they win than lose, if only because it would save him the headache of congressional investigations.

Much like his midterm convention last month in Dallas—a Trump-a-palooza that few Republicans other than Trump particularly wanted—the Nebraska rally seemed to be less about helping his party and more about reminding himself of his immovable base, via yet another trip back through the good ol’ days. (Although Nebraska’s races for governor and Senate are closer than Republicans might like, the nonpartisan Cook Political Report has rated them “solid Republican” and “likely Republican,” respectively.)

“We won this state all three times by a landslide,” Trump said, moments after taking the stage, raising the question of what exactly he was doing here.

Christopher Lee for The Atlantic

I have covered Trump, in some form or fashion, since early 2016, when he dispatched the candidate I had been following (Jeb!), the first of several purported giants he slayed on his way to the White House. The scene I found when I arrived in Grand Island midmorning yesterday was, in many ways, reminiscent of those early rallies, when the lines were long, the promises had not yet been broken, and Trump really might have shot people on Fifth Avenue without losing votes.

Deb Reeves, a row-crop (corn, soybeans) farmer, had come to the rally with her 17-year-old grandson, Lincoln, and his buddies for the honor of seeing the president, and wanted to dispel the myth that farmers like herself are upset about the higher prices. “The farmers will take the hit because we believe that balancing the trade is going to be better for America in the long run,” the 74-year-old told me. Reeves likes Trump, she said, because “he loves this country, and I love this country.”

Christopher Lee for The Atlantic

Deb Reeves (center) stands with other Trump supporters ahead of the rally last night.

Linda Madsen, a retired nurse, told me she likes Trump because “he’s a businessman—he’s not a politician,” and dismissed the idea that “the economy is as bad as the news people make it out.” Since her husband died, she’s been doing a lot of traveling—she recently took a Disney cruise with her granddaughter—and observed, “There’s gobs of people everywhere you go.”

“People have new phones. They get tattoos. They do everything they want to do,” said Madsen, who is 75. “So I don’t know. Is it bad, or do they just make it to be bad?” Her friend, Linda Smedra, a 78-year-old cattle rancher, said she was frustrated by Trump’s decision to allow beef imports in an attempt to drive down the cost of meat—“We ought to let the market figure out where the price needs to be”—but she agreed: “He’s done more good for the country than he’s done harm for the country.”

[Read: Trump’s secret points system for Cabinet members]

And Rose Sober told me that Trump “stands for the values America was founded on,” which she said include the Constitution, free speech, freedom, and love of the military. The 64-year-old, who doesn’t work, said that President Biden began using an autopen five days into his presidency, allowing the “Democrat socialists” to make decisions for him, and she concluded by praising Trump for surrounding himself with “God-fearing men who believe in the Bible.”

“Throughout history, if you look at the Bible, God has used people like President Trump to fulfill his will,” Sober said. “There’s Daniel; there’s Joseph. I could go on.”

Christopher Lee for The Atlantic

Supporters of President Trump line up to attend a rally promoting Republican candidates in the upcoming midterm elections in Grand Island, Nebraska, on Monday October 5, 2026.

A disaffected Biden-Trump swing-voter crowd this was not. Even when I specifically asked attendees about the economy and inflation, they mainly blamed Biden, as Sober had, or Democrats dating as far back as Barack Obama and Bill Clinton. And in conversations with more than a dozen voters, everyone—with one notable exception—supported Trump’s decision to go to war with Iran, telling me the Islamic regime cannot get a nuclear weapon, that they’d rather fight Iran there than here, and that it was about damn time. “It’s a shame that it took us this long to handle what we should have handled,” Brennan Lavelle, a 54-year-old hog producer, told me. One woman wore a T-shirt that said, simply, Finish Iran.

Yet despite the crowd’s halcyon view of the president, the Trump show last night had aspects that the man himself would not have liked. He had recently complained about what he views as the media’s unfair coverage of his crowd sizes—“The Arena was totally MAXED OUT,” he wrote on social media yesterday, after his Ohio rally—but the reality in Grand Island was similar: Yes, there was a long line that started early, snaking past nearly every building of the state fairgrounds and out along a chain-link fence on the street. But the 100,000-square-foot Pinnacle Bank Expo Center was not packed, not by a long shot, with a smattering of empty chairs and some open spaces in the back and along the sides.

As the crowd filed in, premade signs of blue and red awaited them, and they were decidedly on message: No Tax on Tips, No Tax on Social Security, Lower Prices, Bigger Paychecks. The president, too, managed to accomplish the ostensible purpose of his trip; he began by touting Governor Jim Pillen, Senator Pete Ricketts, and Representative Adrian Smith, all Republicans up for reelection, and he later pulled each one onstage, allowing them to speak briefly. But he also said things that were not true, attacked the media, and strayed from the teleprompter—including when he suggested that Iran could hit a major Democratic city if the country develops a nuclear weapon. “They can take out a city,” Trump said, then seemingly shifted to imagining critics of his war displaying indifference toward that prospect: “Let them take out Los Angeles. Let them take out San Diego.” Fighting Iran, he continued, was a “very small price to pay” for avoiding such attacks.

In a parking lot before the rally began, Sany Dash peddled wares from her USA Trump Store, a potent mix of razzle-dazzle and MAGA. At political fundraisers and other private events, Dash said, she sells the sequined jackets for $250 a pop, if not more, but was offering them in Nebraska for just $100. By early afternoon, she had already sold 88. Dash, a Trump supporter who urged me not to quote her out of context, said that she has seen enthusiasm for the president fluctuate because of the war and the economy, which she noted are interconnected. “Make sure to put in that we love Trump, and we understand both sides,” she said. “We understand the wealthy, and we understand the working class. We’re in between.” After all, the Trump years have been good to Dash, who estimated that she has attended—and sold merch at—roughly 260 Trump rallies since 2016.

Christopher Lee for The Atlantic

The sequined jackets that Sany Dash sells at Trump rallies

This particular rally was for people like Dash—or, more accurate, for Trump to be surrounded by people like Dash, those men and women who voted for him three times and would do so again if they could. (One man I spoke with fancifully suggested a Vance-Trump 2028 ticket.) The notable exception came in the form of two young men from the area, both in their early 20s and wearing black shirts that said Bibi’s favorite pawn above an image of Trump, on the front, and Good Goy on the back. The shirts, using anti-Semitic terms popular in alt-right spaces, referred to Trump’s support for Israel and, the two said, the president’s war with Iran. “We voted for Trump based on the idea of America first, right?” Creighton Mehring, an electrician, told me. “That’s what we felt that he was running for this term. And then once he got into office, we’re fighting other people’s wars.”

“It’s not our war,” his friend, Dakota Van Winkle, chimed in. “Like Charlie Kirk said, it’s not our war.”

[Read: A war of assassinations]

As we stood chatting, waiting in the long line for concessions before the rally began, a black-clad security guard approached. The young men could stay, he said, they just had to keep to the back half of the room—out of view of the cameras, the president, the main crowd.

The Nebraska rally was for Trump—his people, his vision of himself—and nothing would be allowed to intrude on that reality.

Occam’s Razor Explains Trump’s Daylight-Savings Obsession

2026-10-06T17:07:05-04:00

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President Trump is in a race against time. There are 28 days until the midterms. There are 837 days left in his presidency. There are actuary tables noting the challenges of battling Father Time for 80-year-old men. But, at the moment, he is focused on one particular slice of time: daylight savings.

It has become the latest obsession for a man known for not letting go of his compulsions. He has tilted against windmills, told the government to stop procuring paper straws, and spent significant mental and rhetorical energy openly discussing which is worse: electrocution in a sinking electric boat or being devoured by a shark.

His attention has been pulled to daylight savings by pending legislation that would end the requirement to change clocks twice a year to match the seasons, moving an hour back in the fall and then jumping forward in the spring. Instead, he wants to keep the clock where it is after springing forward—ensuring more sunlight in the evening—and not falling back, which allows for more light in the mornings during winter months. “LOCK THE CLOCK!” the president wrote on social media over the weekend.

Trump has offered a number of anecdotal arguments to support his view. During an interview with the conservative commentator Wayne Allyn Root in August, he claimed that he was once an hour late for an important meeting—“a big person from a big country”—because he had forgotten to reset his clock. He then claimed that stopping the time change would deter crime, “because criminals sleep late, you know; they do their crime in the evening.” He has suggested that it’s unsafe and costly for workers to have to reset clocks on church steeples or government buildings twice a year. He has also said that getting rid of daylight savings would lower people’s risk for cardiac issues and stroke, limit seasonal depression, and boost tourism.

[Read: A different kind of fading president ]

But perhaps Trump’s most fundamental motivation became evident late last month: A president who likes to golf would like more sunlight to do so. During the final day of the Presidents Cup, held at a Chicago-area country club on September 27, Trump met with the PGA Tour Chief Executive Brian Rolapp and discussed daylight savings. A few days later, Rolapp sent Trump a letter urging him to ensure that there is more sunlight in the evenings. Too many golfers are busy with their lives and struggling to get in enough time on the course, he argued—a problem made even worse when the clocks fall back. “An extra hour of evening light sounds simple, but for everyday Americans, it can be the difference between getting on the course and not,” Rolapp wrote. The change, he said, would generate 23 million additional rounds of golf each year and pump $1 billion into the golf industry. All of this seemed to register with Trump, who operates multiple golf clubs, and who made the letter public two days later. In a midterm election in which many voters are angry about prices at the pump or in the grocery-store aisles, a closing message from the president is to stand up for the rights of golfers to get an extra hour on the green.

This particular president has known few constraints during his return to the White House. Without congressional approval, he has gone to war with Iran, torn down the East Wing, renamed large bodies of water, and closed the Kennedy Center.

But Trump has not attempted to halt the changing of the clocks himself, instead conceding that he needs Congress to pass the Sunshine Protection Act. The House has passed the bill, but Trump has met resistance in the Republican-controlled Senate. “It’s dead as disco,” Senator John Kennedy of Louisiana, a Republican, told Reuters last week. Trump has fixated on one particular Republican holdout: Senator Tom Cotton of Arkansas. Last weekend, the president took the unusual step of posting what he claimed was the Republican’s cellphone number and urging Americans, particularly those in Arkansas, to call Cotton and demand that he vote for the bill.

Cotton’s office did not respond to my requests for comment, but he has said on social media that although “no one likes changing the clock,” not doing so would mean “absurdly late sunrises” during winter months. In Fayetteville, Arkansas, the sun would rise close to 8:30 a.m. “Arkansans don’t want their kids going to school in the pitch dark,” he wrote. When I tried the number that Trump posted, I was greeted by a cheery automated message: “Sorry, the mailbox is full, and there is not enough space to leave a message. Goodbye!”

Historians have traced the idea behind daylight savings back to Benjamin Franklin. In 1784, he wrote a satirical letter to the editor arguing that the government should make sure that sleep patterns coincide with the sun as a way to save money on candles. It would take more than a century for the idea to become reality: Congress enacted daylight saving time in 1918 to help conserve energy during World War I. Although Woodrow Wilson tried to keep the change permanent, Congress overrode his vetoes, and the experiment with shifting the clocks ended.

But at the urging of President Franklin Roosevelt, it was reinstated in 1942 during World War II, with a new slogan: “War Time.” When the war ended, Congress again dropped the practice. In the decades afterward, some states adopted different standards, creating a confusing patchwork of time zones. William Markowitz, a time scientist at the United States Naval Observatory, at one point concluded that “the United States is the worst timekeeper in the world.” Iowa alone had 23 methods for starting and ending daylight saving time. For a brief period in Minnesota, St. Paul moved clocks forward for daylight savings while neighboring Minneapolis did not. Police officers in St. Paul wore two watches.

Congress stepped in to create a national standard with the Uniform Time Act in 1966. Clocks would spring forward in April and fall back in October. In 1973, Congress ended the practice once again after President Richard Nixon called for the change in an address to the nation. But public support crumbled during the winter months because kids were going to school in the dark. The New York Times called it the “Second Dark Age,” and the experiment ended after less than a year. Since then, there has been some tinkering—shifting what month the clock changes, for example—but not wholesale changes.

[Read: The war over daylight saving time]

Trump’s own stance has evolved. In March 2019, he posted on Twitter in support of making daylight savings permanent. Five years later, he reversed himself: “Daylight Saving Time is inconvenient, and very costly to our Nation.” Last March, three days before clocks were scheduled to spring forward, Trump was again indecisive. Americans seemed evenly divided on the issue, he told reporters in the Oval Office, making it “hard to get excited about it.” He said he could see the argument from both sides. Some people want more light later in the day, he said, whereas others like having the light early in the morning. But a few weeks later, perhaps tired after losing that hour, he was clear that he wanted daylight at the end of the day. “Very popular and, most importantly, no more changing of the clocks.”

In May, as the legislation marched toward House approval, Trump was again animated, and said the country had to end “this ridiculous, twice yearly production.” He added: “It will also be a very nice WIN for the Republican Party. Take it!”

It doesn’t appear that the Republican Party is going to follow his advice.

A Reckoning in Springfield

2026-10-04T07:30:00-04:00

Photographs by Carol Guzy

This article was featured in the One Story to Read Today newsletter. Sign up for it here.

He kept going over the details.

“I run this route every day, like clockwork,” the trucker was saying, heading west to where he had first seen the man on the side of the highway.

Now it was a Sunday morning, his day off, and Jack Buhring was driving his mother’s minivan, retracing the route, trying to make sense of what had happened less than a week before. His girlfriend, Renee Claytor, was in the passenger seat, studying him, then looking out the window. His mother, Diana Buhring, was in the back. “It wasn’t your fault,” she kept saying, and “Jack, do you think you’re still in shock?” But her son was not really listening.

“Mondays—that’s usually my long day,” he continued. Up at 1:30 a.m., shower, coffee, and by 2 a.m. he’d be pulling out of the mobile-home park in Chillicothe, the southern-Ohio town where he had grown up, gotten his first job hauling garbage, his second job driving cross-country, and the one he had now, hauling powdered concrete hardener in a Kenworth T800. Fairborn to Westerville, Westerville to Fairborn, repeat. Two loops, paid per load, no health insurance, and a recliner where he fell asleep most evenings. Those were the basics of Jack Buhring’s 41-year-old life, and just after eight that Monday morning, August 31, he had reached his favorite part of the route, a westbound stretch of highway running through miles of cornfields and wildflowers near Springfield, a small city that he passed each day, and whose recent troubles had barely registered as a series of memes and headlines that he’d mostly tried to avoid.

“We’re getting closer,” he said now, passing the fields. “We’re coming up on it.”

He’d been in the right lane, he said, when he’d noticed a car rolling to a stop on the right shoulder. As he flipped on his left turn signal to move out of the way, he’d seen a man getting out of the car, who was then walking toward his trunk, who was then continuing on against traffic, then running—then diving out in front of him.

[Read: The northern passage]

“Right here,” Jack said as he drove over black tire marks curving left across all three lanes. “See, I locked it down right here. You can see where I swerved. See? I started to signal and—it just happened so fast.”

Renee and Diana glanced back at the marks. Jack continued: An SUV and another truck behind him had swerved to a stop. The other trucker had helped Jack out of the cab, which had somehow been jammed shut, and checked on the man, who had been caught under Jack’s truck. Jack, who was not physically injured, had called 911 and told the dispatcher that a man had jumped in front of him, and—“Oh my God. I killed him.”

Waiting on state troopers, he had looked around and seen a black device about 20 feet from his truck. He realized that it was an ankle monitor, smashed and blinking red.

“I started trying to put two and two together,” he said now, continuing west on the highway. “I said, ‘I hope he’s not a troubled kid, down on his luck, in trouble with the cops.’ That’s the first thing that come through my mind.” Then the state troopers had arrived, and after a while, one of them told Jack that it was a young Haitian man from Springfield.

At that point, Jack didn’t understand the full significance of what the trooper had said. He was shaking and sweating in the middle of the highway. He called his boss to tell him what had happened. He sat in a trooper’s car and gave his report. He cleared a drug test. Then he started asking questions that the troopers could not immediately answer. He wanted to know the young man’s name. He wanted to know if he had kids. He wanted to know anything about him.

Carol Guzy

A truck on I-70 in Ohio passes mile marker 66, where Pierre Damas Bel died when he walked into traffic.

When he got home later that afternoon, Renee told Jack what she was hearing on the news, a story that would soon become another defining moment in the Trump administration’s mass-deportation campaign. More and more, Americans going about their regular lives were witnessing black SUVs roaming parking lots and gas stations, neighbors and colleagues disappearing, and sometimes ICE agents grabbing, tackling, or even shooting people, forcing a thousand quiet reckonings with what the country has become. This time the violence was being investigated as a suicide, the witness was Jack, and the reckoning began as Renee told him the young man’s name, Pierre Damas Bel.

He was 20, and had arrived legally in the United States in March 2024 and been granted something called Temporary Protective Status, or TPS, due to dangerous conditions in Haiti. He had joined his family in Springfield, where roughly 15,000 Haitians had settled in recent years. He had just graduated from high school, where he’d been a standout student, soccer player, and member of the Junior ROTC program. He’d enrolled at Wright State University, half an hour from Springfield, and wanted to study neuroscience. The news coverage mentioned that the Trump administration had revoked TPS for approximately 350,000 Haitian nationals living in the U.S., which Jack remembered hearing something about. And that in recent weeks, ICE had started ordering Haitians in Springfield to check in at field offices, where they were being fitted with ankle monitors, which Jack had not known about.

By the next day, he’d heard that Bel’s father, Ronal Bel, who declined to be interviewed for this story, had put out a statement saying that “after my son was outfitted with this ankle monitor, he felt like he was treated like an animal.” Ronal wrote that his son had told him that classmates had bullied him because of the ankle monitor and that he felt “humiliated,” and that he’d called moments before his death to tell his father that he was not “feeling okay.” Jack heard that politicians and activists, including a Springfield pastor named Carl Ruby, were blaming the Trump administration for what happened. “It’s our immigration policy that took his life,” Ruby had told reporters.

Jack thought about that. He was a lifelong Democrat who had voted for Trump for the first time in 2024, reasoning that things weren’t getting better, so why not try something different. He’d supported what Trump had said about deporting undocumented immigrants convicted of crimes, but none of what he was learning now sounded like that.

Carol Guzy

Carl Ruby, the pastor at Central Christian Church in Springfield, comforts Ronal Bel on the day that his son died.

He began searching for more details about the young man he was now calling Pierre. He found his social-media pages. Here was Pierre in a blue suit receiving an award from a local business group. Here he was smiling in his JROTC uniform. Here he was at an award ceremony for Texas Roadhouse, where he’d worked as a waiter, and playing on a soccer field. And here was the photo of Pierre’s left leg, the bulky black monitor clamped around his ankle, the red light glowing above a shiny black-and-white wingtip. “I came to this country to pursue my education,” the caption read. “Yet now I’m walking through the streets of the United States with a GPS monitor on my leg,” he said, “carrying a feeling of shame and humiliation that I never imagined I would experience.”

“I mean, Pierre would have been a model citizen,” Jack said now, driving Renee and his mom toward another part of the route that he needed to see. “He had so much going for him. I think there’s more to the story than they’re saying.”

He said he knew there was more because of how the state troopers had described what happened in their preliminary report. It said that Pierre had “walked” into traffic, whereas Jack had told them that “he ran at me like a damn football player.” He kept replaying the moment.

“I didn’t see him until the last minute—when I got up to him, it was just timed perfectly,” he said. “That’s what I’m saying. That’s what don’t make any sense.”

“It was a coincidence,” Renee said.

“Maybe it was, but it was just all timed too perfectly,” Jack continued. “You’d have to be in my shoes to see that. But I keep on thinking about it.”

Renee kept telling him that he was rationalizing. That he was traumatized. But in the days after Pierre’s death, Jack had kept going. He reviewed what he knew about Haiti, which was gangs, killings, and corruption. The only Haitian Jack knew was a girl Renee’s aunt and uncle had adopted as a baby when they were missionaries over there. They had told him what it was like.

He reviewed what he knew about the Haitians in Springfield, which had mostly come from his mother, via a friend of hers who lived there, and had little good to say; Jack had seen a video she’d circulated purporting to show Haitians eating cats and dogs. Diana had called her up after everything happened, and her friend had sworn that Pierre had waited on her at Texas Roadhouse the weekend before. The friend said she recognized him from the photos. She told Diana that she and her husband had ordered two salads, and when the waiter she assumed was Pierre brought only one salad, she told him that they’d ordered two; she said that he had smiled and said something in a language she did not understand. Diana still wondered about what he’d said. She told Jack that she was worried about him, that Haitians in Springfield were angry. That everybody in the country seemed to be angry, including her.

“My son could have died,” she said now. “A whole bunch of lives could have been taken. And that’s another thing—”

“No,” Renee said, attempting to preempt what she knew was coming.

“That’s why I think this is a statement—some kind of statement,” Diana continued.

“It’s not a statement,” Renee said.

“It is. Look how it’s blowing out,” Diana said, referring to all the news and the vitriol toward the Trump administration.

“No,” Renee said.

But Diana, who had spent years working as a nurse in Ohio prisons, continued. She said her experience had taught her to think “outside the box,” and she offered a theory that none of the investigating authorities had suggested. She believed that what happened could have been more than a suicide, that Pierre could have been “almost like a suicide bomber,” attempting to send a political message. She said she believed that this could start happening more often.

“I’ve seen stuff on the internet too—like, someone said, ‘You should be thinking of the truck driver too,’ and someone commented, ‘Oh, fuck that truck driver,’” Diana said.

Carol Guzy for The Atlantic

Students and staff honor Bel at Wright State University, where he had just started college, on September 8.

She had been worried enough to contact Carl Ruby, the pastor in Springfield, to hear more about the situation there. He had told her that Haitians had been losing their jobs since Trump revoked their legal status, and were terrified of being sent back to Haiti, where deportees were being targeted because gangs assumed they had money. He told her they found the ankle monitors humiliating. He also told her that he had been with Pierre’s father the night his son died and had gone with him to view his son’s body. He said that the family had no animosity toward her or Jack, and that they understood he had done everything in his power to avoid the collision. Ruby, who told me that it was a “really good talk,” told Diana that he was sorry for what her son had been through, and invited them both to come to one of the vigils that had been happening almost every night since Pierre’s death. Diana had asked Ruby to pass on their condolences to the family, but she did not think it was a good idea to show up. Jack had thought about going; some part of him wanted to go.

“I feel really bad for the family,” he said now, getting closer to the stop on his route that he wanted to see. “I just don’t want to take the chance for the safety of my family. I mean, he jumped out in front of me. But I still killed their son.”

“You feel guilty about it,” Renee said.

“I feel guilty,” Jack said.

“I hate to say it, but there’s a lot of animosity against, just, white people,” Diana said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not our belief, Diana,” Renee said.

“I put my pistol out, just in case—you never know,” Jack said.

He exited the highway in Westerville, the stop on the route where he delivers concrete powder twice a day, and drove over to a complex of metal chutes and silos. Right after everything happened, he had been talking with a friend who found out that Westerville had an ICE field office that Pierre had visited, and now Jack put the address into Google Maps and navigated over to a brick building 1.7 miles away.

He tried to imagine Pierre getting fitted with the ankle monitor and, in the weeks before his death, showing up at the field office and pleading to get it taken off. Jack imagined this happening right down the street from where he was going about his job.

“It was so close,” he said, looking at the building. “It don’t make sense in my mind. I’m trying to come up with a reason.”

Renee told him it was just a coincidence.

“It could be a coincidence, it could,” he said. “Maybe my intuition is telling me something.”

He wondered whether Pierre might have noticed his truck as he drove through Westerville. “My truck is 23 years old—it’s not something you see on the road every day. I think, at some point, we’d get off at the same exit and get on at the same exit,” he said, turning back onto the highway.

He started replaying everything that had happened. Seeing the car, seeing Pierre get out, seeing Pierre run toward his truck. And then he recalled another detail about that moment.

“He made eye contact,” Jack said now.

“He was looking at your truck, not you,” Renee said.

“Renee, he made eye contact,” Jack said. “He looked me dead in the eyes.”

They headed toward home. Chillicothe was an hour from Springfield, but to Jack what was happening there felt closer now.

Since ICE operations began in early August, locals have witnessed agents in unmarked SUVs with dark windows detain people at apartment complexes, strip-mall parking lots, gas stations, a car wash, and frequently during traffic stops. At least 74 people, nearly all Haitians, almost none with criminal convictions, have been detained so far, according to lawyers and local activists. Dozens more, they said, have been fitted with ankle monitors, including pregnant women and elderly people.

Carol Guzy

Monsanto Maler, who came to the U.S. from Haiti in 2023, became emotional and fell to the ground after receiving an ankle monitor at an ICE check-in in Blue Ash, Ohio, in August.

When I visited in early September, much of the Haitian community was in hiding. Families were getting food delivered to their homes, attending church services online. Haitian activists told me that some people had spoken of suicide as an alternative to deportation. At the vigils for Pierre, the people who showed up included his high-school teachers, his soccer coaches and teammates, waiters from Texas Roadhouse, and others who described themselves as neighbors, including a man who told a crowd one night that Pierre’s death was “a failing of broader policy, but I will always bear the guilt that there is more that I could have done and we could have done.”

What is happening has been transformative for some people, including Carl Ruby. His congregation, Central Christian Church, has been actively supporting the Haitian community since 2024, when Vice President Vance and others started spreading the false stories about Haitians eating cats and dogs. On the Monday night after Pierre’s death, Ruby told me, he’d sat with Ronal Bel as he talked to reporters with a stoicism that Ruby could not fathom, then followed him into a closet, where Ronal broke down. A few days later, when Ruby accompanied him to a local funeral home, he watched as Ronal walked circles around the table where his son’s body lay and repeated, “You have been a good son.” At one point, Ronal took off his shirt and waved it over his son’s body, which Ruby understood as a ritual that meant “I want my spirit to go with you. I’m not abandoning you.”

Viles Dorsainvil, the executive director of the Haitian Support Center in Springfield, who has been spending time with Ronal, told me, “He’s still having questions, and it’s hard for him to accept if he’s living in this reality.”

Yesterday, Ronal Bel sat in the front row at St. John Missionary Baptist Church for his son’s funeral. He asked a family friend to read his recollections of his first-born son, who had grown up in the port city of Aux Cayes, along the southern coast of Haiti. “I feel like I have lost everything,” the friend read. “I just cannot sleep” and “When someone opens the front door, I have the sense that it is him, coming home.”

Governor Mike DeWine, a Republican, who has taken multiple humanitarian trips to Haiti and has criticized Trump’s effort to deport Haitians as “a mistake,” was among those in the pews, sitting alongside Haitians and other people from Springfield and beyond.

Addressing the crowd, Dorsainvil said that Ronal Bel had come to the U.S. after surviving a massacre in Haiti, and that his son’s life is “part of a larger human story. ” He said that the mourning “extends beyond one family.” Ruby spoke of the different circles of people affected by Pierre’s death—those closest to him, neighbors in Springfield who want Haitian families to know that “you are a blessing and not a burden to this community,” and another group, those who are “curious and just want to reach a better understanding of what happened to Damas. Some, even though they don’t know your family and are not part of this community, want you to know that they share your grief.”

Carol Guzy

Ronal Bel watches as his son is laid to rest at Ferncliff Cemetery in Springfield on October 3.

In the two weeks before the funeral, Jack had gone back to work. He returned to his regular route, avoiding the right lane as he passed through the stretch of cornfields and wildflowers. One Saturday morning, he and Renee were at his mother’s house in Chillicothe, still trying to piece things together.

“Maybe you just felt like he made eye contact,” Renee was saying to him.

“I know he did. I don’t know why,” Jack said.

“I think you were affected by this more than you want to admit,” Renee said, and then Jack mentioned that the other truck driver, the one who had pried him from his cab, had called him. He and the man, John Hallings, had exchanged phone numbers at the scene that day and had been talking off and on since then, Hallings told me. He was a trained emergency responder and had a medical kit in his truck. He had gotten out of his cab with gloves on, kneeled in front of Jack’s truck, and checked for Pierre’s pulse, which was gone.

“He went straight to that boy,” Jack said. “He said it kind of messed him up. He’s not doing so hot.”

Hallings had told Jack that he’d gotten extremely depressed thinking about Pierre, and then extremely angry thinking that he could have killed more people than just himself, and thinking about immigrants taking jobs in the trucking industry, bringing down wages. Then, a few days after that, he had broken down crying.

“He said he was kind of worried about me,” Jack said, checking his phone for any more details about Pierre.

“You shouldn’t look so much,” Renee said.

“But, Renee, I care,” Jack said.

He said that the more he learned about Pierre, the more he was beginning to understand. He’d recently found out, for instance, that Pierre had been a kind of leader in his family. Besides bringing in money, those who knew him had talked about how he was the one in his family who spoke the best English, who could fill out forms, make phone calls, and otherwise help his family manage their lives in Springfield.

“I think he just had a lot piled on his shoulders,” Jack said. He himself had been caring for an ailing father for the past 15 years, bathing him, helping him recover after two strokes. “I’d say the boy was stressed. I’d say he’d probably had enough.”

“I wish I would have known him, because I would have taken him in,” Diana said at one point. “I got a spare room.”

“I think a lot of people would have helped him,” Jack said.

He had kept thinking about the ankle monitor, to the point that he went online one night to find out more about the devices.

“His was a dinosaur—it was big,” Jack said.

“My sister’s ex had one,” Renee said.

“Pierre’s was ginormous,” Jack said, calling up a photo of one on his phone.

[Read: A reverse Ellis Island]

He had tried to imagine how Pierre had felt walking around with it on, attempting to play soccer, and he had learned something else about the ICE monitor that really bothered him, which was that Pierre had to keep it charged himself.

“And if he let it go dead, he gets in trouble. I mean, it’s a joke,” Jack said. “I mean, come on, you got a decorated kid, a full-time student, playing soccer, and they’re going to do that shit to him? I think he just probably felt defeated. He put all that effort in, and he wasn’t getting anywhere. And being from a Third World country too? We don’t know what those people walk in day-to-day.”

“I’m not trying to sound mean or anything, but we can’t take care of everybody,” Diana said.

“Well, we wouldn’t have had to take care of Pierre. Pierre was doing what he was supposed to do,” Jack said. “We did not do right by him.”

He was beginning to believe that the Trump administration was “a joke,” and that the Democrats were no better. “Everything is broken,” Jack said.

He started going over it all again. The morning that began so normally. The cornfields and wildflowers. A young Haitian man named Pierre Damas Bel whose troubles had become his own.

He kept imagining Pierre looking him dead in the eyes.

“He was hurting,” Jack said.

He recalled the moment right after that.

“If I had just swerved a little sooner,” he said. “I wish I could’ve done more to keep that truck off him.”

And the moment right after that.

“I felt a big thump, and I knew it was him,” he said. “I could feel it all.”

Renee reached for his hand, knowing that he was feeling it still.

“I’m good, I’m good,” the truck driver said.

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide, you can call or text 988, or visit 988lifeline.org for more resources.

Is There Anything Kash Patel Won’t Do for Trump Before the Midterms?

2026-10-02T10:29:05-04:00

This article was featured in the One Story to Read Today newsletter. Sign up for it here.

Earlier this year, FBI Director Kash Patel vowed before God, Fox Nation, and Donald Trump that he would punish the “deep state” for its manifold transgressions, especially the (actually nonexistent) conspiracy to steal the 2020 election.

“I’ve been with the president nearly since day one on this,” he said in an interview with Maria Bartiromo. “I can announce on your show that we’ve got all the information we need. We’re working with our prosecutors at the Department of Justice under Attorney General Todd Blanche, and we are going to be making arrests, and it’s coming, and I promise you, it’s coming soon.”

That was five months ago. Patel has not yet delivered on his promise. But in interviews with more than 40 current and former administration officials, FBI employees, and members of Congress and their staffers, as well as others close to the White House, I’ve learned that it is not for lack of trying.

The people I spoke with described Patel as desperate to help the Justice Department indict putative malefactors and stimulate headlines to please the president. Nearly all of the people I spoke with would speak only on the condition of anonymity because they feared retaliation if their name appeared in the story. Patel has filed a $250 million defamation lawsuit against The Atlantic and me in response to my reporting earlier this year that he has alarmed colleagues with episodes of excessive drinking and unexplained absences.

In recent months, Patel has been briefed on the FBI’s “election integrity” investigations in Arizona, Florida, New Jersey, Ohio, and beyond. Officials told me their understanding is that many of the election-related investigation requests came directly from the White House, many times with the instruction that “this is a big deal for the president” or “this is a push from 47.” But all of that attention hasn’t yielded results. In meetings, Patel has expressed frustration that there have been no new findings, and instructed staff to “look harder” or “look again,” according to three people familiar with the conversations.

The FBI’s preoccupation with the 2020 election represents a dramatic break with its past. Though the bureau—one of the world’s most famous and most powerful law-enforcement agencies—has experienced more than its share of controversies and episodes of overreach, it has also been dedicated to criminal investigation based in evidence, science, and reality. The commitment of personnel, resources, and time to investigate a conspiracy theory that was manufactured by Trump to explain his electoral defeat marks a decisive pivot away from its historical role.

Patel’s aggressive pursuit of the conspiracy investigation has helped him keep his job. Reports that Trump is keen to push him out have diminished. Patel’s predecessors had always sought to demonstrate their independence by creating operational and optical distance from the White House—especially when it came to the sanctity and neutrality of elections. Patel has taken a radically different course, attempting to translate Trump’s eternal election-related grievances into a core law-enforcement mission of the federal government. “Patel is the only guy who never says no,” a Republican operative close to the White House told me. “And the president likes that.”

[Read: Trump’s purge may be just beginning]

In response to a three-page memo I wrote outlining 17 detailed questions for him regarding the FBI’s pivot to election-conspiracy investigations, Patel responded in a most curious fashion. Instead of addressing my questions, he wrote: “I’m still looking for my gold-plated jet ski in the English Channel; you all know where it is. Free ride if you help me find it.”

I did not understand this response. I have never written about, or asked Patel or the FBI about, anything having to do with Jet Skis or the English Channel. A bit of Googling, however, uncovered the probable root of his reply. On July 10, MS NOW published a story concerning Patel’s political difficulties, some of which, the story said, related to his lifestyle. Included in the story was a graphic of, among other things, a white Jet Ski, a set of golf clubs, and a private jet. Patel responded to the MS NOW story on X, writing, “Nah, my jet ski is gold plated… dumbass.”

Put simply, Patel responded to The Atlantic’s questions about the FBI’s election investigations by referring to a graphic that appeared on an unrelated news story on another media company’s website.

Other FBI officials, however, did respond to my questions. The FBI’s press office sent me statements from five other named officials—Chris Raia, Andrew Bailey, Chad Yarborough, Joe Perez, and Matt Fodor—who defended Patel, claimed my reporting was “false,” and insisted that the FBI was “united.” Many of the statements used almost-identical language and did not deny that the FBI was focused on the alleged election conspiracy. The FBI published my questions and its answers on X last night, before this story was published.

A spokesperson for the FBI said in a statement that “election security is and will continue to be one of this FBI’s highest national security priorities, and we will make no apologies for any work to ensure every American citizen’s sacred right to vote is protected from criminal interference.” The spokesperson said there has been a “500% increase in election integrity related investigations and arrests just this year alone” and denied that there had been any internal concerns raised about the bureau’s approach to election-related investigations.

But others I spoke with told me that Patel’s stance is redefining how the bureau prepares for an election. One striking example came last month when FBI and DOJ staff attended an “election integrity” training session. In the past, these trainings have focused on how to respond to the most common threats to poll workers or voting locations. Some attendees were alarmed that a focus of this year’s training was about voting by undocumented immigrants, a statistically rare phenomenon that has nevertheless preoccupied Trump and others on the right. There was little mention of the prohibition on armed federal law enforcement being stationed at the polls.

Agents across the country have been seeking counsel in recent weeks about how to respond to FBI directives related to the election, according to six current and former FBI and DOJ supervisors and outside defense attorneys who told me they have received calls. “Agents are nervous, talking among themselves,” said a former DOJ official who has received multiple requests for advice unlike anything this person has seen before. Another former senior FBI official told me he had received calls from dozens of his former colleagues looking for counsel and describing “a real effort to bend people to the narrative” of the president’s election-conspiracy theories. One agent told me he contemplates Election Day and thinks: “I’m either gonna be sick that day or they are going to have to fire me.” There is no question that people in the FBI are rattled. What is uncertain is the degree to which they should be.

On Monday, Andrew Bailey, one of the FBI’s co–deputy directors, unexpectedly announced that he was leaving the bureau, citing a desire to spend more time with his family. Bailey had overseen election-related investigations, and had supported Trump’s false fraud claims. But several employees I spoke with said he would frequently raise questions about proposed law-enforcement actions in meetings. “Bailey brings up the Constitution. He will say, ‘The law prevents you from doing that,’” one former FBI official told me. Now he is gone, leaving employees to wonder whether anyone left at a senior level will push back on Patel or the president. (In a statement, Bailey denied raising questions about proposed actions, saying, “This is absolutely false.”)

Another shake-up in recent days came when several attorneys left their assignments in the investigation into the alleged “grand conspiracy.” Two former DOJ officials told me the prosecutors quit because they had clashed with senior department leadership amid pressure to deliver indictments before the midterm elections. Among those exiting are “true believers” who were committed to the president’s goals, as one law-enforcement official described it to me.

For more than a century, FBI agents have sworn an oath to protect the American people and uphold the Constitution. That mission becomes complicated when a president is so intensely focused on the outcome of FBI investigations. One former senior FBI official told me that Patel has told his staff that he “believed the same things as the president” when it came to election conspiracies and was going out of his way to accommodate White House requests. “It was clear that Kash was just trying to hold on to his job, and willing to do anything it takes,” this person said.

Democratic members of the Senate Judiciary Committee sought to use Patel’s appearance under oath last month to extract a commitment that the FBI director would say no to the president if asked to deploy federal agents to polling locations. They failed. When Senator Richard Blumenthal asked Patel to confirm that FBI staff would not be physically present at polling sites, he responded: “I don’t know that we can’t legally do it.” Since the end of the Civil War, federal law has prohibited the deployment of armed federal agents to election sites “unless such force be necessary to repel armed enemies of the United States.” When asked whether he agreed with Trump’s statement that Democrats can win elections only by cheating, Patel said that “the information you’re discussing involves ongoing investigations” and declined to answer the question. He later elaborated to say that “based upon the Russiagate hoax, and everything else that’s happened, the president is completely justified in making his opinions known as does any president before him.”

As I watched, I was reminded of a message relayed from one DOJ official to another this summer when asked about the Justice Department manual, which prescribes specific rules and procedures to ensure that the department is never perceived to be playing politics with elections. “I was told the Justice Manual isn’t a thing,” the official told me. Instead, the official said that this was the answer they received: “There are no rules. Just make sure Republicans win.” When I asked about this, a DOJ spokesperson said, “That is not, and has never been, Department guidance.”

[Read: The FBI director is MIA]

Patel has repeatedly directed FBI officials to reinvestigate Trump’s loss in the 2020 election—and he has removed those who pushed back. In January, Paul W. Brown, the special agent in charge of the Atlanta field office, was replaced after he expressed reservations about following orders to seize 2020 ballots in Fulton County, Georgia, according to four current and former officials familiar with the situation. (Brown did not respond to requests for comment; a spokesperson for the FBI said, “Mr. Brown retired.”)

In July, the FBI sent emails across the bureau announcing a “Director’s Office priority effort,” requiring all FBI field offices to “immediately surge support” to the FBI’s Fulton investigation. Roughly 260 FBI employees were ordered to drop their other responsibilities for two weeks in order to review data related to the seized ballots, working weekends and overtime at substantial cost to taxpayers. Staff were instructed to compare the Fulton voting records with information in another database, an effort that those who participated said seemed aimed at identifying fraud, but in practice was prone to errors and wasn’t considered up to FBI standards.

Two FBI analysts were escorted out of the office after they raised questions about the process. The FBI declined to comment on personnel issues but said in a statement that “individuals are only removed from the Bureau if they engage in weaponization of law enforcement, act unethically, or undermine the FBI mission.”

Those familiar with the Fulton effort told me it didn’t yield anything substantive—numerous reviews have found no evidence of significant fraud in Georgia in 2020, or anywhere else—but they also said they believe that the episode this summer was just a prelude of what’s to come.

“We have every reason to believe that Patel will aid and abet Trump” in the pursuit of election-related conspiracy theories and undermining trust in the midterm elections, one former official told me. Agents assigned to coordinate with the state and local election officials who actually administer elections say the once-collaborative partnerships are now tense and fraught with suspicion. Their former partners in election protection now openly question whether the FBI will in fact protect American elections. “It’s full-on warfare to get anything out of any election official,” one former official told me.

In an interview with Fox News’s Sean Hannity in May, Patel described personally directing election-related “grand conspiracy” investigations “in multiple jurisdictions,” saying it is what he spends much of his time on. But career officials scoff at what they see as a misuse of resources. “It’s a waste of time,” one FBI employee involved in the election investigations told me, describing how supervisors were asking for the same documents over and over. The requests originated with instructions from headquarters, and were often passed along with tacit acknowledgment from managers in the field that they knew there was nothing to be found.

Many current and former officials described an unusual number of calls Patel receives from the White House and its allies throughout the day, relaying requests for FBI activity or updates. Officials told me that Patel openly acknowledges his limited agency, citing directions from Trump, Stephen Miller, and other White House staff. “I’ve personally heard him say, ‘I have to do this for the White House,’” one former FBI official told me.

The White House did not deny that Miller gives direction to the FBI, and confirmed that he “interacts with all law-enforcement agencies on a regular basis.” FBI Operations Director Joe Perez said in a statement that the bureau “receives referrals from a variety of places, assesses the facts of the allegation, documents the referral, and we make the decision whether or not to proceed accordingly under an authorized purpose as we have always done.”

[Read: Kash Patel’s personalized bourbon stash]

The most well-staffed election-related investigation is being run out of the U.S. attorney’s office in South Florida, and Patel has been an enthusiastic enabler. He has directed significant FBI resources to the effort. “Patel has said yes to everything. Every single thing” that senior leadership has wanted of the investigation, one former official familiar with the investigation told me.

The investigation has yielded little to nothing, but Patel’s response has been to escalate further. “They just keep throwing more people at it,” one FBI employee told me. A former FBI employee told me that the investigation has become a running joke, and staff have continually had to manufacture new excuses to be unavailable so they don’t get asked to participate.

The FBI and DOJ declined to provide details of how many FBI employees had staffed the investigation and what previous assignments were dropped when they were reassigned to the probe. The FBI also declined to provide any details on how much money has been spent on the effort to date.

[Read: Kash Patel will do anything for Trump]

The conspiracy case appears to have hit a particularly rough stretch last month, when the Trump loyalist Joe diGenova resigned from his role overseeing the investigation, citing pressures to deliver indictments. He would not answer my questions when I reached him shortly after his resignation, but he told the New York Post, “If you want indictments where there’s no evidence, you have an ethical problem.” (He later added to the Associated Press that “there’s plenty of evidence in all of these cases to prove the theories of prosecution. It just takes time to get there, and some people want to get there a little faster than others—and you can’t do that.”)

In recent days, more resignations have followed, including that of Kurt Olsen, who was appointed by Trump to be the White House director of election security and integrity last year before joining the conspiracy investigation at DOJ. Olsen was a prominent participant in the “Stop the Steal” campaign following the 2020 vote and was later sanctioned for making “unequivocally false” statements to a federal court. While working at the White House, Olsen made a referral that led to the FBI’s ballot seizure in Fulton. Olsen did not respond to requests for comment.

One law-enforcement official told me that the FBI’s role in the “grand conspiracy” investigation was particularly flawed and had alarmed officials in the deputy attorney general and attorney general’s offices. The investigators’ approach was a “total waste of resources” that “led to nothing,” the official told me. (A DOJ spokesperson denied that senior leadership had expressed concern.)

Orders from the White House were described to me as remarkably specific, down to individual names. “The president wants indictments. He wants people in handcuffs. He wants the headlines,” one former official told me, “no matter how thin” the underlying facts are. When I asked what would happen if the president didn’t get the indictments he was seeking, the official said Patel’s and Blanche’s jobs would be on the line. “They’ve spent so much money on this. They’re going to have to come up with something.”

A spokesperson for the White House said in a statement that “the claim that the White House dictates who the Department investigates or charges is false. Investigative decisions are made by the Department based on evidence. No one is charged because of a headline, and no one is charged without a grand jury finding probable cause.” The U.S. attorney’s office in South Florida did not respond to a request for comment. One law-enforcement official told me that the recent “drama” among DOJ officials overseeing the investigation did not reflect a lack of evidence of a crime, and to expect “developments imminently,” including possible indictments in the weeks ahead.

Other administration officials and those close to the White House dismissed the idea that Patel would be removed if he ultimately fails to deliver what the president wants. Some have speculated that Trump favors reassignments over firings because he believes that his administration can protect active government officials from complying with subpoenas.

Others told me that Patel remains in his job because confirming any replacement would require near-unanimous support from Senate Republicans, something the president no longer has. Some Republicans fear, meanwhile, that overzealous action by Patel could make their problems worse. “It would be an absolute disaster for Republicans in the midterms, especially those in vulnerable races, if Patel sent FBI agents to the polls or seized ballots,” one Republican staffer told me. “People have to trust their government, in the integrity of our elections.”

Previous FBI directors have gone out of their way as elections neared to show that they weren’t doing the president’s bidding. Patel has done the opposite: Long ago he dispensed with any pretense that he’s apolitical. Last month, while appearing with the president at a Long Island police academy, the FBI director effusively thanked the president throughout his remarks. The event looked and sounded almost identical to a Trump rally, complete with endorsements of Republican candidates and attacks on Democrats. Patel was transparent about why he holds the most powerful position in American law enforcement, and what keeps him there: “President Trump, I’m living the American dream because of you.”

The GOP’s Culture-War Hail Mary

2026-10-02T07:00:00-04:00

Updated on October 2 at 11:37 a.m. ET

Last week, as the war with Iran dragged into its seventh month, gas prices shot up to an average of $4.50 a gallon, and polling showed President Trump about twice as far underwater with American voters as he was at this point in 2018, Republican senators determined that the time had come to discuss something else entirely: youth sports. “Girls’ sports are for girls. Boys’ sports are for boys,” Senator Marsha Blackburn said in a news conference.

With 32 days to go until the midterm elections, Republicans’ closing strategy is obvious: They’re going all-in on trans. (It seems to have worked for them before, after all. More on that in a minute.) In Texas, Republicans are running an unsettling AI-generated ad that shows the Democratic Senate candidate James Talarico dressed as Maria von Trapp and singing about girls with mustaches. A spot in Iowa accuses the Senate candidate Josh Turek of supporting “sex changes for kids.” On X, former Representative Matt Gaetz offered a tidy summary of his party’s agenda: “I hate the war too,” he told a concerned voter. “But the Democrats want to trans your kids.”

Partly, this is because Republicans don’t have much else to say. The administration’s immigration-enforcement strategy isn’t exactly popular. Voters have lost faith in the GOP on economic issues. Meanwhile, the president is obsessing over Corinthian columns. But Republicans also have some reason to believe that making trans happen is a useful strategy: It’s helped them before. Two years ago, a series of ads about Kamala Harris’s support for gender-affirming surgeries proved to be some of Trump’s most persuasive. (“Kamala is for they/them. President Trump is for you.”) In November, such ads could mean the difference between Republicans retaining and losing the Senate. “They believe that it energizes the base and divides ours,” Lanae Erickson, a senior vice president at the center-left think tank Third Way, told me. “And they’re right about that.”

[Read: The Republicans are bolting from Trump]

But it’s not clear that Democrats have figured out how to thwart the Republicans’ transgender gambit without betraying their own coalition.

The most jaw-dropping attack on Talarico probably comes from the American Principles Project, which has released an ad that is essentially a modern version of Lyndon B. Johnson’s “Daisy,” a sinister spot about the threat of nuclear war. The ad opens with a little girl standing in a field, counting flower petals. Everything is gray. Suddenly, the scene shifts, and the girl is in a hospital bed wearing an oxygen mask. An AI-generated Talarico looms over her in a pair of scrubs. “Irreversible puberty blockers. Cross-sex hormones. Sex-change surgeries,” the vaguely southern narrator declares. “This November, stop them before it’s too late.”

The ad exists because Republicans believe that its message will boost turnout among the base—just like it did in 2024—and help Ken Paxton beat Talarico in Texas. “We’ve done the polling to measure the voting impact that these issues have on voters, and they’re still at a good level,” Terry Schilling, the president of the American Principles Project, a social-conservative advocacy group, told me. Sure, the economy should be a stronger issue for the GOP, he said. But voters “despise the Democrats’ culture-war agenda. Period.” (Talarico, for his part, is running ads focused on funding schools and health care, and countering corruption in Washington.)

The president is aligned on the persuasive power of the anti-trans message. At the GOP convention in Dallas last month, Trump said that he was “petrified” that Democrats might change their position on transgender athletes in sports. “That will really hurt us,” he said. “That’s one of our great sound bites of all time.”

[Read: Trump’s dream world in Dallas]

Unfortunately for him, some Democrats are already doing just that. As a state legislator, Talarico was outspoken about transgender rights and inclusion; he voted against a bill banning certain gender-reassignment procedures for children and another banning transgender girls from K–12 girls’ sports. He once declared that parents who deny their child’s gender identity are “abusive.” Now, though, the seminarian turned Senate candidate sounds different. Asked last month whether girls should play in boys’ sports, he answered: “As a former public-school teacher, I care a lot about our student athletes, I care a lot about our students. And so I will oppose trans athletes playing in girls’ sports if it risks safety or fairness.” Talarico has dismissed some of his previous comments on the subject as “cringey.”

Two years ago, this might have gone differently; Talarico might not have responded to Republican attacks at all. That was once the customary advice from Democratic-consultant types, who believed that ignoring anti-trans attacks was safer than calling more attention to them. This is no longer best practice, Erickson, from Third Way, told me. The last election proved that “silence is deadly,” she said, noting that her group’s research shows that, unanswered, anti-trans attacks can seriously damage a Democratic candidate.

In the run-up to November, Erickson, who advises Democrats on how to talk about LGBTQ issues, has seen a sharp increase from candidates in requests for help. As GOP campaigns launch their last-minute trans-focused ads, Democrats want to know when to respond, what to say, and how to avoid offense. “They’re so scared they’re going to say the wrong thing,” she said.

Erickson, who declined to name the specific candidates she’s advising, offered some general advice. When answering questions about transgender players in sports, she argues, Democrats should embrace the sandwich method: Start with empathy, mention rules and fairness, and end with a little more empathy. Questions about health care for minors can be answered by reiterating that parents, not lawmakers, are the best decision makers for their own kids. One of Erickson’s favorite responses comes from Lindsay James, an Iowa Democratic House candidate, who in 2022 voted against a bill banning biological boys from playing on girls’ sports teams. “We need to protect kids, and we need common-sense rules to keep sports fair for boys and for girls,” James, who is running in a district that Trump won by 10 points in 2024, says in a new ad. “Parents know what’s best for our kids. Washington needs to stay out of it.”

The problem with Talarico’s and James’s answers is that they’re not very specific. Any journalist or curious voter would have plenty of follow-ups: When, for example, might an activity risk “safety or fairness”? What would fairness look like, and who would make the rules? Perhaps this is why other Democratic candidates are choosing to go off-script. Gina Hinojosa, who is running to replace Texas Governor Greg Abbott, has said that she won’t take up legislation related to the “culture wars” as governor; in a new ad, she declares, “My pronouns are mom, Texan, and soon-to-be governor.” The Ohio Democrat Sherrod Brown’s strategy is to point out the absurdity of focusing on trans issues at a time like this. “Here they go again, those same attacks against Sherrod Brown,” one voter says in a new Brown ad. “With everything going on, that’s what they’re talking about?” says another voter.

The desire to be straightforward has some Democrats sounding, well, a lot more like the Republicans in Congress. In Ohio, Amy Acton, who is running for governor, told the Toledo-based newspaper The Blade, “I do not support boys playing in girls’ sports.” Rob Sand, running for governor in Iowa, has repeatedly said that “girls’ sports are for girls, and boys’ sports are for boys.”

[Read: A Democrat in name only]

Some Democrats have praised these candidates for their candor. Sand “has taken some of the cultural issues that dog Democrats in red states off the table,” Adam Jentleson, the founder of the center-left Searchlight Institute, told me in August. But their answers are not without political risk. Erickson, from Third Way, does not see Sand’s or Acton’s rhetoric on this issue as particularly helpful, mainly because calling transgender girls “boys” is misgendering them. “That is going to piss people off,” she said. She’s right.

After Acton’s comments to The Blade, LGBTQ advocates in Ohio set up a virtual meeting with her campaign, hoping to communicate their concerns. The Democrat’s comments about “boys playing in girls’ sports” were functionally “misgendering every single trans person in the state of Ohio,” and they amounted to “trans erasure,” Arienne Childrey, a state-House candidate and the vice chair of the Ohio Democratic Party’s Pride Caucus, told me.

But when the advocates logged on to the virtual call, they learned that Acton wouldn’t be joining and had instead sent campaign staff in her place. Things got worse. Childrey said that she was denied entry into the meeting, despite her role on the Pride Caucus, and when another activist pressed to get Childrey included, that person was ejected from the Zoom call. The discussion that followed was one-sided, another attendee told me. Acton’s campaign staff did not respond to any of their questions, this person said, and offered no reassurances for trans Ohioans on behalf of their boss. (The Acton campaign did not respond to requests for comment.)

A few weeks later, another Ohio Democrat, Representative Marcy Kaptur, whose race for reelection will be one of the most competitive in the country, confirmed Childrey’s fears by sounding, well, a little bit MAGA in a new campaign ad. “I voted with Republicans to keep transgender ideology out of our schools, because parents know what’s best for their kids, and boys should not play in girls’ sports,” Kaptur said.

Activists view the whole situation as an alarming shift among Democrats—one that portends worse to come. “Targeting trans people isn’t the winning strategy some people think it is,” Equality Ohio, an LGBTQ-advocacy group, told me in a statement. Childrey said that “the triangulation thought process is that we have to throw trans rights under the bus” to win elections: “We’re leaning in a direction that loses the heart and soul of what it means to be a Democrat.” In an online interview with a transgender political commentator last week, Childrey implied that she wouldn’t be voting for Acton in November, saying that activists need to show Democrats nationwide “that transphobia will not be a successful selling point.” The big risk, she explained, is that in 2028, “you’re going to have the choice between a transphobic Republican and a transphobic Democrat for president.”

Republicans are hopeful that a dogged focus on trans issues in the final days of this election season can depress turnout among Democratic voters like Childrey just as much as it energizes their own base. Democrats will have to hope that, this time, the GOP’s gambit will fail.

Here’s Who Democrats Want to Impeach Next

2026-10-02T07:00:00-04:00

As Democrats have grown more hopeful that they might win control of the U.S. Senate, congressional investigators have gathered regularly in a conference room in the office of Senator Maggie Hassan of New Hampshire, who is on track to lead the body’s key oversight committee if they do. The team in recent months has assembled a list of people in President Trump’s orbit and administration whose actions are worthy of a probe, and they have brainstormed possible witnesses, drafted information requests, and gamed out how the administration might respond.

Across the Hill, Representative Robert Garcia of California, a Democrat who could soon chair the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform, has been preparing even longer. He told me he keeps a “running list of the most corrupt things that the Trump family has done” on a whiteboard in his home in Long Beach where senior staffers this week wrapped up several days of strategy meetings. “There’s a lot of ideas and possible investigations on there,” he said.

With the midterms just weeks away, an army of committee staffers has been quietly preparing to launch numerous investigations in the new year. When the 120th congressional session begins in January, Trump and his administration could suddenly find themselves under the type of scrutiny they have thus far avoided. But there are significant risks and limits to Democrats’ congressional powers—and divisions could quickly emerge over the number and intensity of investigations, especially if their majority is a thin one.

During Trump’s first term, Democrats heavily invested in trying to impeach the president on two occasions, animating their base but taking them away from work on issues of broader interest to more Americans. But the biggest hurdle is likely the president himself: Trump is widely expected to be more dismissive of congressional oversight than any president in history, ignoring requests, resisting subpoenas in ways that give Democrats little recourse, or issuing broad pardons to insulate those close to him. If Democrats attempted to hold someone in criminal contempt of Congress, the matter would be referred to a Department of Justice that Trump has controlled completely.

All of these considerations leave Democrats certain that they are going to scrutinize Trump like never before, but deeply uncertain about how it will go. “I don’t think I’d call it retribution. I’d call it a reckoning,” Representative Suzanne Bonamici of Oregon told me. “I don’t look at it like, We’re going to get back at you. We’re going to hold you accountable.”

House Democrats have had a stronger expectation of winning the majority than their colleagues in the Senate, which has given them a head start in organizing their strategy. Senators have largely coordinated with their House counterparts—a task that has proved tricky in the past, and led to turf wars over who gets the political spotlight. But in recent weeks, with Democrats sensing an opportunity to claim the Senate majority, efforts have increased on that side of the Capitol as well. “We have to work quickly,” one Democratic aide told me, speaking on the condition of anonymity to discuss private preparations. “Everyone realizes the pressure to work fast.” On the Senate Finance Committee, eight staffers have been tasked with different subject areas and have weekly meetings to talk about investigative options, Senate aides told me. Over the next few weeks, they are aiming to compile reports on their options if Democrats gain the majority.

Ask any Democratic incumbent or candidate to name their top investigative target, and they’ll likely give you five answers—or more. There are broad buckets: alleged Trump-family corruption, immigration enforcement, the war in Iran, and Washington construction projects. But there also are alleged payments for pardons, allegations that U.S. attorneys are misleading judges and grand juries, Venezuelan oil contracts, and questions about Donald Trump Jr.’s wedding party to look into.

[Read: Don Jr.’s wedding trap]

The Democratic base is eager to see Trump held accountable for his actions, and many members have a voracious appetite to get going. “Every single committee we have needs to be extremely aggressive in their areas of jurisdiction,” Representative Yassamin Ansari of Arizona, a Democrat who represents the Phoenix area, told me. “People want to see investigations, prosecutions. They want to see people in jail.” (Although Congress can’t put someone in jail, it can bring potential crimes to light.) She sees the need for a range of investigations—including subpoenaing Barron Trump, the president’s youngest son, to ask about his reported ties to Andrew Tate, who has been indicted in Romania on charges of trafficking minors—and she doesn’t see a problem with launching numerous investigations. Trump has no issues “running everywhere at once,” she reasons, so why should Democrats?

But members in more moderate districts have been less outspoken, and have placed more of an emphasis on the economic issues voters say they care most about. In a survey of likely voters last month in the 37 districts that the Cook Political Report rated at the time as competitive (the number has now grown to 43), only 21 percent said they wanted a candidate who would be a check on Trump, 35 percent said they wanted someone to work with him, and 43 percent said they wanted someone who would focus on changing the political system overall. Representative Jason Crow of Colorado, a Democrat, was one of the seven impeachment managers during Trump’s first trial, and the lessons he drew from it are still fresh. Impeachment is one tool, he told me, but he also thinks the party needs to be strategic and focused about how it flexes its investigative muscles. “We’re going to be methodical about it; we’re going to be intentional about it,” Crow said. “We can’t do everything at once.”

Garcia, who might soon chair the House’s key oversight committee, acknowledged how tricky it will be for Democrats to map out where to focus their energies and how to keep the party united. “We’re working on that broader strategy and cadence right now,” he told me.

Almost immediately, Garcia said, Democrats plan to take actions related to allegations of the Trump family’s corruption and profiteering and to the administration’s handling of federal investigative records related to Jeffrey Epstein. There are also calls for impeaching Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth over the unauthorized war in Iran, boat strikes in the Caribbean, and the mishandling of sensitive information. Democrats also hope to investigate allegations that Corey Lewandowski solicited financial kickbacks in exchange for government contracts while working as a special government employee for the Department of Homeland Security. Garcia said they could attempt to call Trump himself to testify, but they lack strong legal means to force him to do so if he doesn’t comply. They plan to call White House Chief of Staff Susie Wiles, Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy Stephen Miller, and others. “They’re going to push back really hard on a lot of this,” Garcia told me, “and I think we’ve got to be creative and aggressive, and use public opinion, and push where we can.”

[Read: The ‘crazy’ plot to release the Epstein files]

Democratic leaders expect that the Trump administration will be highly litigious on requests for data and documents, and they are trying to come up with ways to instead get that information from third parties. This might mean subpoenaing contractors instead of the White House, or seeking records from banks rather than the Treasury Department.

It also means being targeted and specific in their requests, and building on information they have already gathered. Some House Democrats have collected video footage, for example, of ICE officers and potential abuse of immigrants that they want to further examine.

If Democrats gain control, they also plan to discontinue some past bipartisan practices that could stall investigations. Senator Ron Wyden of Oregon, should he take over as chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, would drop the practice of issuing subpoenas only if the chair and ranking member agree to do so, and would instead put such decisions up for a majority vote. “We’re planning to be much more aggressive than we have been in the past,” the Democratic aide told me.

Four years ago, top advisers to President Biden anticipated that Republicans would win control of the House and attempt to impeach Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas and put Hunter Biden under significant scrutiny. They spent months in strategy meetings in the Dwight D. Eisenhower Executive Office Building, next to the White House, and hired communications advisers and white-collar attorneys. The Trump administration doesn’t yet appear to be making similar preparations. White House Counsel Will Scharf, who would have to oversee much of the Trump administration’s response, did not reply to my message seeking comment. Olivia Wales, a White House spokesperson, said the president “is focused on retaining Republican majorities in Congress.”

[Read: The watchdogs are barking themselves hoarse]

Republicans have tried to cast Democrats as drunk on impeachment, and House Majority Leader Steve Scalise warned at the Republican convention earlier in September: “The first thing they’ll do is impeach President Trump and his Cabinet.” There are a few calls for impeachment—including from Senator Ed Markey of Massachusetts and Minnesota Lieutenant Governor Peggy Flanagan, the state’s Democratic nominee for Senate—but most Democrats are hesitant to call for impeaching Trump for a third time. Trump won’t be able to seek another term, and there’s a recognition that the Senate likely would not convict him. “Donald Trump is not fit to be president,” Crow told me. “But did impeachment achieve our goal? It did not. Could it in the future? Maybe. Maybe. We need conditions for that.”

Impeaching Cabinet members, though, may be a different matter. House Democrats have already filed legislation attempting to impeach Hegseth, Education Secretary Linda McMahon, and Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. There were also efforts to impeach Pam Bondi when she was leading the Department of Justice and Kristi Noem during her time at the Department of Homeland Security. At the top of Crow’s list: Hegseth, for purging the top ranks of the military, misuse of classified systems, and his role in the controversial agreement that has given the Pentagon a stake in a major private Venezuelan oil firm.

As Trump becomes a deeply unpopular lame-duck president, signs are emerging that some in his party may stop acceding to his demands and begin distancing themselves from him. Representative Thomas Massie of Kentucky, a Republican who has a contentious relationship with Trump and lost his primary earlier this year, filed articles of impeachment on Hegseth last month that caused the House to break for recess to avoid a contentious vote. Senator John Curtis of Utah, a Republican, recently called for more scrutiny of the Trump family, citing its crypto deals, real-estate transactions, and the recent wedding party. “These reports raise legitimate questions about foreign access to members of a sitting president’s family and whether such relationships can create actual or perceived expectations of favorable treatment,” he wrote in a letter to the Senate Judiciary Committee.

The Trump Organization did not respond to my questions about how and whether it, or the president’s family, is preparing for investigations. An ally of Donald Trump Jr., who is likely to be investigated for allowing a Russian oligarch to finance a party after his wedding ceremony, said that Trump Jr. would be ready for the scrutiny and pointed to his congressional testimony during Trump’s first term. “Nothing Democrats do next year is going to shake him,” the ally, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because he wasn’t authorized to comment publicly, told me. “Don is ready for what’s coming.”

Democrats are working furiously to try to make sure they, too, are ready for what could be coming.

Marie-Rose Sheinerman and Madison Hahamy contributed to this report.

The Problem With Trump’s Crime Claims

2026-10-01T07:00:00-04:00

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President Trump is deeply unpopular, and his party is on track to lose badly in the midterm elections. But at least one thing is going well on his watch: The nation’s homicide rate has dropped to its lowest level since at least 1900, and the number of violent crimes is falling across the country at the fastest pace ever recorded. Trump and senior administration officials, including the domestic-policy adviser Stephen Miller, are celebrating these trends as the effect of their immigration crackdown at the southern border and on U.S. streets.

“Before I took office, we had the worst and most dangerous border on Earth,” Trump asserted to the United Nations General Assembly last week. Now, he said, no one is allowed into the United States unless they’re invited. “As a result, last year we achieved the largest drop in violent crime ever recorded.” The president had been even more explicit at an August rally in South Carolina. “If you wanna get the migrant criminals out of your communities, you have to vote Republican,” he said.

ICE arrested about 50,000 immigrants a month this summer, the highest level ever, and deportations are on track for a record year. But Trump’s claim about ICE’s role in the falling crime rate is not backed up by his own administration’s data. Several of the cities and states that have seen the sharpest drops in the homicide rate, according to FBI and census data, are also the “sanctuary jurisdictions” that the administration deplores as incubators of violent crime. (The Department of Justice defines sanctuary jurisdictions as places with “policies, laws, or regulations that impede enforcement of federal immigration laws.” Those jurisdictions have adopted policies that limit cooperation between their police departments and ICE.)

Three of the five jurisdictions that recorded the largest change in the violent-crime rate, according to FBI and census data, were labeled sanctuaries: Connecticut, Illinois, and the District of Columbia. And of the 11 states where the homicide rate is falling fastest, six are considered sanctuary jurisdictions by the DOJ: Vermont, Delaware, Maryland, Illinois, Washington State and New York. Another—Massachusetts—has a sanctuary policy in its largest city.

Similarly, the states with the highest numbers of ICE arrests do not have the largest decreases in violent crime, either in terms of raw numbers or as a percentage change compared with last year. Georgia has been consistently among the top 10 states for monthly ICE arrests, according to federal data analyzed by the Deportation Data Project at the University of California. But FBI and census data rank Georgia 33rd in the violent-crime-rate reduction. Virginia, which has also consistently been in the top 10 for ICE arrests over the past year, is 34th among states in falling violent-crime rates. And although Florida consistently has had the second- or third-highest number of monthly ICE arrests over the past year, it was 18th among states for its violent-crime-rate drop.

To be sure, there are cities with relatively high numbers of ICE arrests that have reported significant declines in violent crime, including Houston, Memphis, and Nashville. But the most recent federal data do not show cause and effect, let alone a clear correlation. In New York, Philadelphia, and Los Angeles—all sanctuary cities—the murder rate is the lowest in at least a half century.

[Read: The man in charge of immigration data just resigned]

The Department of Homeland Security told us that a comparison of state-level ICE-arrest volumes and year-over-year violent-crime-count changes is improper, but did not provide evidence for the president’s own cause-and-effect claims tying the two together. “It’s common sense: when you remove illegal aliens off our streets, the violent U.S. crime rate DROPS,” DHS Secretary Markwayne Mullin said in a statement. “President Trump is making America safe again.”

The number of homicides and other violent crimes began falling in the 1990s. It spiked during the pandemic, then resumed a downward path during Joe Biden’s presidency. Elisa Jácome, an economist at Northwestern University who has studied the effects of immigration enforcement on crime, told us that although it’s easy for politicians to try to claim credit for the reduction, “it’s actually quite difficult to separate those claims from the underlying trends, which are very real.”

The declining violent-crime trend is also real in countries where Trump is not president and there’s no mass-deportation campaign. Canada’s homicide rate fell 16 percent from 2024 to 2025, the biggest one-year drop in 40 years, according to a July 2026 report by the Canadian government. Homicides in England and Wales are at a nearly 50-year low, according to British government data, amid a historic influx of immigrants.

Trump’s claims about crime and immigrants have been his calling card ever since he first ran for office, more than a decade ago. As his party potentially faces the loss of its congressional majority in November, he and top law-enforcement officials have been trying to fire up the MAGA faithful with the messaging that helped Republicans gain control of the House in the 2022 midterms.

The president made his law-and-order pitch during a visit in August to a police academy on Long Island, where he campaigned for Bruce Blakeman, the Republican challenging New York Governor Kathy Hochul, a Democrat who is expected to easily win the race. Using rows of uniformed police officers and cadets as a backdrop, Trump mocked the state’s Democratic leaders and told the crowd the White House was full of “young, beautiful girls” who “want to be safe” while working in the nation’s capital.

Republicans in tight races have been less eager to embrace Trump’s mass-deportation campaign. Representative María Elvira Salazar, a Republican whose Miami district has been roiled by immigration enforcement, released a video message last month telling Trump that ICE was picking up too many non-criminals. Other Republicans who have tried to distance themselves from the White House’s aggressive approach include Senator Roger Marshall of Kansas, where ICE has been raiding meatpacking plants. Trump won the state by 16 percentage points in 2024, but the latest polls show Marshall in a tight race with the Democratic nominee, Adam Hamilton, who says families are “living in fear” of ICE.

Even longtime proponents of the president’s immigration agenda have rescinded their support. In 2017, then-Governor of Maine Paul LePage applauded Trump for signing an executive order banning immigrants from many Muslim-majority countries, saying he was in full support of Trump’s “action to protect all Americans.” But last week, LePage, who is now running for a House seat, announced at a news conference that his son’s father-in-law is being deported. Even though he came to the United States legally and has a work permit, “he came from a country that’s not the liking to certain people in Washington,” LePage said, without naming the country. “That’s not right.”

[From the November 2026 issue: The babies left behind in America]

Administration officials have claimed that upwards of 65 percent of immigrants arrested by ICE have a criminal record. But even among those with convictions or pending charges, most offenses are nonviolent, Charis Kubrin, a criminology professor at UC Irvine, told us. (In July, less than 4 percent of immigrants arrested by ICE had a past violent-crime conviction, according to an analysis by The New York Times.) In August, Kubrin released a study on changing crime rates and unauthorized-immigrant populations across nearly 12,000 U.S. neighborhoods. She found that the number of immigrants in a neighborhood is inconsequential to the amount of unlawful activity. “Increases do not cause violent crime to go up. Decreases do not cause violent crimes to go down,” she said. “It has no effect.” Those findings are consistent with dozens of other studies showing that immigrants have lower incarceration rates than native-born Americans.

Trump officials have dismissed those arguments, advancing something akin to a broken-windows theory that claims permissive border policies encourage immigrants to disregard American laws. Having violated the country’s immigration rules to enter, the theory goes, they’re more inclined to commit more serious offenses once they settle into their new lives. Charles Fain Lehman, a senior fellow at the center-right Manhattan Institute, told us there’s no evidence of that. Lehman said criminal-justice scholars debate why the homicide rate has fallen so fast. They point to an array of other factors, including more powerful police surveillance and tracking tools that help cities more effectively deploy officers to areas with higher incidences of violent crime. Others posit more esoteric theories, such as the removal of lead from drinking water and fewer people consuming alcohol. Researchers generally don’t regard immigration enforcement as a significant factor, Lehman said.

When immigration-enforcement officers target serious criminals, however, there are potential benefits to public safety, he said, because a small fraction of offenders commit the majority of offenses. “Some of those offenders are noncitizens who are here illegally. If you remove them from the country, then mechanically you would expect the rate of violence or of serious crime to go down,” he said.

Trump has employed a version of that logic, often claiming that 2 percent of people commit 91 percent of crimes when discussing his deployment of the National Guard in Washington, D.C. (The Niskanen Center, a nonpartisan think tank, found that the National Guard had no significant impact on Washington’s decline in violent crime, but its deployment in high-visibility areas may have deterred people from committing opportunistic property offenses.) A few days after the president declared a “crime emergency” in the capital last year, Stephen Miller told reporters that “the highest degree of national-security and public-safety concern are in sanctuary cities.” Those places, Miller said, release undocumented immigrants who commit crimes back into the community, rather than turn them over to ICE. “And in many cases, those aliens will go on to commit additional serious offenses, including oftentimes—as we’ve seen over and over again—rape and murder.”

FBI and census data from the past year show that neither states with sanctuary cities nor those with high immigrant populations have the highest reported incidence of sexual assault. The five states with the highest reports of rape per capita are Alaska, Arkansas, Utah, Oklahoma, and Montana. Each has a relatively low immigrant population, formalized cooperation between local law enforcement and ICE, and a Republican in the governor’s office.

[Read: An American city, with troops on its streets]

Recent polling shows that Republicans have lost their long-held advantage over Democrats on the handling of immigration, and other polls show Democrats making up ground on crime. But voters side with Republicans on those key issues more than they do on the economy or health care, and the Trump administration has been eager to highlight them, often at the same time.

Attorney General Todd Blanche held an event at the Department of Justice last Thursday and promised to continue the administration’s immigration crackdown. The White House’s “border czar,” Tom Homan, who joined Blanche alongside FBI Director Kash Patel, urged criminal charges against officials running sanctuary cities. (Blanche might have difficulty finding a charge: Sanctuary policies don’t violate criminal statutes.) That afternoon, DOJ announced $25 million in grants for local law-enforcement agencies. But the eligibility requirements come with a catch: Funds are available only to jurisdictions that sign agreements to help ICE make more arrests.

What Is Trump Doing?

2026-10-01T05:00:00-04:00

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The White House’s South Lawn was prepared just so: A full honor guard, complete with American and Chinese flags, stood at attention. The new White House helipad, made of four-inch-thick black-and-white California granite, seemed to gleam. President Trump appeared pleased—but something was missing. Where were the TV cameras?

For a president who needs media attention like he needs oxygen, this was an unacceptable development ahead of Chinese President Xi Jinping’s welcome ceremony last week. Trump whirled around to his aides and demanded they fix it, and a staffer raced to the briefing room to ask ABC News whether it would film the arrival, two people familiar with the exchange told me on the condition of anonymity, given the private nature of the conversations. But the answer was no: The networks were boycotting participation in the TV-pool rotation in solidarity with CNN, which Trump had banned from the White House, along with two other media outlets, days before. No major U.S. television network recorded Trump’s over-the-top greeting for Xi, and the news channels refused to display images taken by the White House or any other outlet, American or Chinese. Trump did not get to show off his extravaganza. And he had only himself to blame.

At the risk of understatement, Trump has never been one to think all that many moves ahead. But his impulsive decision to ban media outlets spawned unintended consequences that derailed his own plans. Again. That’s been a real theme for much of this year: Many of Trump’s actions—quite a few impetuous and ill-considered—have only hurt him and his fellow Republicans ahead of November’s midterm elections. He was elected two years ago to drive down prices, but his tariffs have done the opposite, and a recent reignited trade war with Canada has hurt Republican candidates whose state shares a border with our neighbor to the north. His war of choice in Iran continues to sputter along, leaving gas prices elevated as Trump threatens annihilation one day and offers negotiation the next. He insists on championing AI while the public has swiftly turned on it. And he’s obsessed with vanity projects—including, yes, that helipad that cost at least $5 million—even as polls suggest that many Americans feel that he is out of touch with the Everyman he once claimed to represent.

The numbers are bad: Trump’s approval rating dropped to 37 percent in a new Wall Street Journal poll this week, marking the lowest rating in that poll since 1990 for an incumbent president heading into a midterm election. He’s even lower in other polls. The president, the most dominant figure in the GOP in generations, will soon hit the campaign trail for his party—but he is beginning in deep-red states, an eyebrow-raising bit of scheduling that suggests acknowledgment of his weak political standing. More and more Republicans are starting to worry about a blue wave, one that seems certain to secure the House for Democrats but could very well, in an outcome unthinkable even a few months ago, yield a Democratic Senate as well. With barely a month until Election Day, and with early voting already under way in a number of states, Trump and his party are flailing.

A Trump rally has been the signature political event of the past decade of American politics. The president considered forever walking away from them after his final one during the 2024 campaign, but he has been talked into reviving them now and then at a smaller scale and with heavy security. He held only a handful last year and, despite aides promising that he’d barnstorm the country with more frequency in 2026, rallies have still been rare; in September, he held just one (in North Carolina). He’s traveled domestically far less this term, distancing himself from the concerns of his voters. But with October and the stretch run of the midterm campaigns now here, Trump seems set to gas up Air Force One.

Trump will begin with visits to two GOP strongholds (Oklahoma today, Alabama tomorrow) before then journeying on Saturday to Ohio, a state he won three times but where polls show Republican incumbent Senator Jon Husted trailing his Democratic opponent, former Senator Sherrod Brown. Ohio is not the only reliably red state that now seems to have a Senate seat up for grabs: Iowa, Texas, Alaska, Kansas, and maybe even Nebraska (where Trump will travel next week) are all now in play. Earlier this year, the 2026 Senate map looked foreboding for Democrats; now strategists from both parties view control as a toss-up.

Matthew Bartlett, a GOP strategist who worked in the first Trump administration but quit after the January 6 Capitol riot, told me that the president hasn’t given Republicans anything to run on, saying they have “no results to point to, no agenda to promise either.” And he said that many in the party feel that the bottom is dropping out and a wipeout could be coming. “Many recent elections have broken late, and hard, and often in one direction only,” Bartlett told me. “Among Republicans there is little hope that things get better before Election Day, but grave concern they may get worse.”

Despite the challenges facing Republicans across the country, neither Senate race in Alabama or Oklahoma seems particularly close (at least for now). So why is Trump going there? For any president, even an unpopular one, his most valuable resource is his time—and heading to those deep-red states comes at the expense of a potential stop in a swing district (though the stop in southern Oklahoma does bleed into a Texas media market). The answer might be surprisingly simple: ego. “The president knows he is still going to get big, adoring crowds there,” one close outside adviser told me. Plus, there has been some debate in GOP circles as to whether or not a Trump visit would actually help in some battlegrounds; several Republicans in tight races are weighing whether to request a presidential visit, party strategists have told me. Two candidates, Susan Collins of Maine and John Sununu of New Hampshire, have already said no, and others have refused to commit. Another GOP strategist familiar with the president’s travel plans insisted to me that Trump will travel frequently and help boost turnout for Republican candidates, but they allowed that polling may suggest states that Trump should avoid.

The White House downplayed any internal GOP concerns. The spokesperson Davis Ingle told me in a statement that “President Trump is the unequivocal leader, best messenger, and unmatched motivator for the Republican Party, and he is committed to maintaining Republican majorities in Congress.”

[Read: The Republicans are bolting from Trump]

Yet there have been signs of Republicans distancing themselves from Trump on more issues, including immigration enforcement and ending the war in Iran. But that unpopular conflict may shadow the party for the foreseeable future: Many diplomats from the Middle East who attended the United Nations General Assembly last week privately feel that the war will, in stops and starts, likely continue well into next year and potentially throughout the rest of Trump’s term, threatening to drag down Republicans’ political fortunes for multiple elections.

Trump has lurched from one distraction to another—Renaming Lake Ontario! Offering $5,000 to every adult citizen if Republicans win in November!—but he has yet to shift the electorate’s dim view of his presidency. He’s still pushing claims of election fraud, even though few Republican candidates have joined in. He even authorized the Department of Homeland Security to use taxpayer money to pay for what is, in essence, a Trump campaign ad despite prohibitions on using federal funds for propaganda. Trump took this provocative step while sitting on a massive campaign war chest, and many Republicans groaned at yet another unnecessary controversy. “I like the message, but it shouldn’t be paid for by taxpayer dollars,” Senate Majority Leader John Thune, a Republican from South Dakota, told reporters this week.

The weekend before that, Trump abruptly banned CNN, MS NOW, and Politico from the White House grounds without telling many of his senior aides (some of whom, on a Friday afternoon, had already left for the weekend). He was reportedly frustrated by some of the coverage that his close aide Natalie Harp had shown him. A few days later, a federal judge ordered that the three media organizations be allowed to return to the White House complex. Even then, the president’s aides found ways to temporarily block them from certain events—and trigger alarms that Trump was beginning to defy court orders. But some of the president’s advisers told me they saw the ban as counterproductive and could, as it did with the Xi visit, deprive Trump of some of the media coverage he craves.

That moment with China’s leader underscored what is arguably Trump’s biggest problem: He has lost touch with what Americans actually care about. The Xi summit was a cornucopia of warning signs for worried Republicans. It came amid a national discourse about the dangers of artificial intelligence, which included a push from industry leaders for additional safeguards on a fast-growing technology that, some insiders have warned, could wipe out humanity. But Trump’s been fixated on how AI has propped up the stock market and some sectors of the economy, and he has refused to slow down its growth. His one nod to how poorly AI is being perceived: He suggested it be renamed “super intelligence,” or SI.

[Read: The deferential president]

The entire decadent spectacle seemed out of step with a country deep in an affordability crisis. The black-tie guest list was dotted with billionaires and tech titans as Trump feted the leader of the Chinese Communist Party, even though he continues to assail Democrats for allegedly being communists. The president was eager to show Xi his under-construction ballroom that few voters support. Xi also seemed to feign interest when Trump gave him a tour of the Presidential Walk of Fame that he installed along the West Colonnade, complete with his predecessor Joe Biden depicted as an autopen. And then, as if the real spectacle wasn’t gaudy and elitist enough, White House Deputy Chief of Staff Dan Scavino posted an AI-generated video on social media that imagined him, his wife, and Trump family members at a champagne-soaked state-dinner after-party. Elon Musk promoted an even more ridiculous rendition. It all felt like a gift to Democrats, who pounced on the videos to paint those in the president’s orbit as dilettantes looking to enrich only themselves.

Susan Del Percio, a longtime Republican strategist, told me that even Trump supporters who are concerned about the economy feel that the president no longer cares about them. “Voters are angry because they are hurting, and through his actions, Trump is telling them that he doesn’t give a damn,” she said.

This week featured another event that likely will not land well with Americans who are struggling financially. Trump presided over a “Golden Age” event that featured business leaders and billionaires—and no talk of affordability challenges. Once more, Trump defended AI and even boasted that it would power a new government-services website. He then joked about where it stood among his accomplishments, saying, “If it is the biggest thing I’ve ever done, I’ve done a shitty job as president.”

You can bet Democrats will grab that one too.

Baruch Obama

2026-10-01T05:00:00-04:00

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Josh Shapiro is having fun, and the crowd is loving it. “Let’s be clear,” the Pennsylvania governor says in his windup. Sometimes, instead of “let’s be clear,” it’s “let me tell you something.” He throws in some “y’alls” with a wide smile. The g’s have fallen off his gerunds. He’s wearing a well-tailored dark suit, but no tie—his signature. When he gets going, his right index finger pokes the air. He’s almost bouncing as he pivots from one side of the audience to the other, in nearly perfect rhythm with his words. Then comes the crescendo; he’s shouting now, but only just loud enough to be heard above the roar of the crowd. Finally, the patriotic peroration—another signature. This one’s a story about Ben Franklin and that famous line: “A republic, if you can keep it.” He exhorts the audience to “show that this is not who we are as a nation.”

That voice, that cadence—it’s all so familiar. Close your eyes, and you could almost imagine that you’re listening to the nation’s first Black president. But he’s the man who hopes to be the first Jew to win the White House.

Shapiro, who is 53 and heavily favored to win reelection this fall, is one of several Democrats eyeing a 2028 White House campaign who have drawn—and even encouraged—comparisons to the 44th president. Like Barack Obama, Baruch Obama emphasizes pragmatism over doctrinaire progressivism; he has performed well in conservative areas of Pennsylvania that voted for Obama before turning to the right. Shapiro can wield a rhetorical knife, but he infuses his messaging with appeals to hope and optimism.

[Read: Josh Shapiro takes a gamble on his faith]

Yet the most obvious similarity is that when Shapiro gives a speech, he really sounds an awful lot like the Democrats’ most renowned speechmaker. It’s a once-you-hear-it-you-can’t-unhear-it type of thing, to the point where some Shapiro watchers believe he’s consciously imitating Obama. “He didn’t used to talk like this,” one Democrat who has closely followed Shapiro’s rise up the Pennsylvania political ranks told me, speaking on the condition of anonymity to avoid starting a public feud with the governor.

Shapiro’s Obama echo attracted notice during the 2024 presidential campaign, when he was under consideration to be Kamala Harris’s running mate. “Is he doing an … Obama?” Ronny Chieng asked in a memorable roast on The Daily Show. J. D. Vance mocked him too. “He talks like Barack Obama,” Vance said on a podcast. “It’s like if I tried to do a really bad impression of Barack Obama.”

Asked to respond to Vance at the time, Shapiro laughed off the charge. “Barack Obama was probably our most gifted orator of my time, so it’s kind of a weird insult,” he told reporters. My colleague Tim Alberta, in the profile he wrote of Shapiro earlier this year, documented the makeover that the governor underwent as he gained prominence—one that included a new hairstyle and sharper clothing as well as the Obama-esque way of speaking. “I just don’t hear it,” Shapiro told Alberta about the oft-noted comparison. “I don’t think I’ve changed my cadence or my rhythm or how I speak.” (A spokesperson for Shapiro declined to comment for this story.)

Obama and Shapiro have known each other for two decades, and the younger Democrat has said that Obama set an example he has “tried to emulate.” Shapiro was an early endorser of Obama during his presidential run, and Obama joined Shapiro at a large get-out-the-vote rally in Philadelphia on the eve of his election as governor four years ago. (It was there that the Democrat I spoke with first noticed—along with many others—how closely Shapiro resembled Obama: “It was him and Obama back-to-back, and that was a moment where people were like, Jesus Christ.”)

The two men have other things in common besides a speaking style. Both have owned dogs named Bo. And they both played basketball in their youth and remain huge fans of the sport. (Shortly after Lebron James signed with the 76ers, Shapiro said that he’d personally tried to recruit the NBA legend to Philadelphia.)

Not everyone hears Obama when they listen to Shapiro. “I had never thought that,” Mike Mikus, a longtime Democratic consultant in Pennsylvania, told me. “He has a similar cadence, but I don’t think it’s a thing.” Mikus noted that politics “is a lot like football: Everybody steals from each other.” Shapiro, he suggested, also made a decent point in his rejoinder to Vance in 2024. “If you’re going to be compared to anybody, it sure as heck doesn’t hurt to be compared to the most popular figure in Democratic politics,” Mikus said.

The Obama comparison certainly doesn’t appear to be hurting Shapiro in Pennsylvania, where a poll released last week by Siena University showed him leading his Republican opponent, Stacy Garrity, by 20 points. A boffo performance in November could propel him into the top tier of what is likely to be a crowded Democratic presidential field, especially if Shapiro’s coattails help his party flip Republican-held House seats and retake the majority. But he’ll face plenty of skeptics. Shapiro’s long-standing support for Israel is a liability with progressives who have demanded an end to U.S. aid for the Jewish state. Among swing-state overperformers, Senator Mark Kelly of Arizona—former astronaut, husband to Gabby Giffords—has a more compelling biography, and Senator Jon Ossoff of Georgia is a competitor for the Baruch Obama label: He’s also Jewish, he makes mainstream Democrats swoon, and, as my colleague Elaine Godfrey has noted, he can, when he gets revved up, also sound a bit like Obama.

[Read: Who’s afraid of Josh Shapiro?]

Will Shapiro’s Obama-esque speeches inspire Democratic voters yearning for a charismatic communicator, or will they make him seem like a knockoff—an overeager pretender to the party throne? For an expert opinion, I consulted David Axelrod, the former Obama adviser, who has probably seen the ex-president deliver speeches as often as anyone alive. Like Mikus, Axelrod told me he hadn’t noticed the resemblance until people started pointing it out a couple of years ago. “He wouldn’t be the first person to try to emulate, or imitate, the president,” Axelrod said.

He added that the ribbing Shapiro receives over his Obama-like stylings may end up being a funny footnote. But the association, should it burrow deeper in people’s minds, does carry risk for Shapiro. “Authenticity is the coin of the realm, and people want to know that you’re comfortable with yourself and that you’re being yourself,” Axelrod said. Voters crave it perhaps now more than ever.

The Great Data-Center Rebellion

2026-09-30T08:00:00-04:00

Clinton, Iowa, is topographically flat and economically declining. The sawmills that made the city rich in the late 19th century have been repurposed as a museum. One of the Victorian mansions long since abandoned by the old lumber barons is open for tours, but tourists are scarce. Clinton has shrunk to about 24,000 people, and the town center, along the Mississippi River, feels nearly empty. On the west side, miles of deep-green corn and soy fields are crisscrossed with transmission wires and zoned for heavy industrial use. The city’s economic activity includes corn processing, pet-food production, and methamphetamines. With available land and a dire need for investment, Clinton seems like the perfect place for a gigantic data center.

In January, a Clintonian named Stephen Figg, who owns a small firm that builds technological infrastructure, including for data centers, heard from a customer that a broker was making inquiries about buying farmland on the west side, north of Highway 30. In mid-February, a father of two girls named Ryan Wisor, who had obtained a residential exemption to live in that area, noticed surveyors with boring rigs working in the field behind the house he’d built. He asked his stepsister, who sits on the city council, if she knew of a planned development. Several weeks later, she told him of a proposal for a data center. He learned that the project would border his house on two sides and come to within 65 feet of his well.

For almost two years, city officials, utility companies, and a pro-business nonprofit, Grow Clinton, had been in discussions about the construction of a data center in Clinton. It later emerged that an international developer called Quality Technology Services (QTS), owned by the trillion-dollar private-equity firm Blackstone, planned to build one of the country’s largest AI data centers—10 buildings of 500,000 square feet each—on behalf of a client that remains anonymous. Private meetings, nondisclosure agreements, and even a code name (“Saturday River”) had kept the plan’s existence quiet until Andy Sokolovich, the president of Grow Clinton, unveiled the proposal at a county-board meeting on April 27. He had wanted to keep the project confidential longer, but word was getting out.

Theresa Andrews, a quality analyst at a chemical company, had heard a rumor in mid-March about a development planned for the cornfields in her area, but she’d blown it off. After watching the April 27 county meeting online, she went on the city’s website and noticed dozens of requests for information about the status of parcels of farmland; a few of them were right across the street from her house. Andrews stayed up late for several nights creating a spreadsheet of the parcels and then a map of the projected site. The scale was almost unimaginable: 1,100 acres, or 832 football fields—about the size of Central Park. This would be a “hyperscale” data center, and it turned out to be far along. From FOIA requests, Andrews learned that plans for upgrading utilities in the area had been in the works since 2024.

This was how the Data-Center Rebellion of 2026 came to Clinton, Iowa. Not through Chinese propaganda, or misinformation on social media—though both are plentiful—but because a small group of residents accidentally got wind of a megaproject planned for their community. Andrews, Wisor, Figg, and others had concerns about water consumption, electrical-grid capacity, soil contamination, low-frequency sound waves, nonstop light, an invasion of out-of-state contractors, and—for those in the leviathan’s shadow—the permanent destruction of their rural life. “There’s no proven history of these things,” Wisor told me. He imagined playing in the yard with his 9-year-old daughter and worrying what their colossal new neighbor might be doing to his family’s health. “I go sit outside and all I think is, This could all be gone. You can’t turn it off.”

Large numbers of Clintonians began to attend contentious city-council meetings. On June 9, the council voted down a proposal for a 120-day moratorium that would have allowed more time to assess the risks of something so immense and unknown. The city proceeded to draft an ordinance for a data center’s construction and use. Legally, QTS could begin without one. According to Andrews, city officials “were trying to tell us we have to hurry and get the ordinance in place so QTS won’t just start building: ‘You should want us to push fast.’ ” Instead, she and other citizens formed Clintonians Against Data Centers.

Even in a city as small as Clinton, the seven members of the group’s steering committee—four women and three men, all white, most of them middle-aged—were at first strangers to one another. The group includes Republicans and Democrats, probably more of the former, but they didn’t know one another’s political affiliations and didn’t seem to want to. Political comments unrelated to artificial intelligence are scrubbed from the Facebook page. “It’s a fun collection in terms of their politics,” Chris Baldus, the editor of the Clinton Herald, told me. “Outside of this, there’s no way in hell these people are talking to each other.”

Celeste Robbins, who works in law enforcement and describes herself as both “artsy” and “very religious,” is a disenchanted Trump voter. “If you want to get rich as a state or as a town,” the president said in September, “you’re going to want a data center.” Robbins told me, “I do not agree with him about this.” She lives far from the proposed site, and her opposition comes down to AI itself: She hates the ease with which it replaces human thought, and she fears the mass elimination of jobs. Figg, who couldn’t bring himself to vote for either candidate in the last presidential election, has worked in tech all his life and welcomes the progress that AI might bring. He had just finished eight months of work on an Amazon data center in Indiana when he learned about the proposal for Clinton. He started attending city-council meetings to offer his expertise. “But the more that I try to provide this knowledge to the city and the city council and the mayor, the less receptive they are,” he told me. “That makes it very difficult for me to want to continue that pursuit instead of the pursuit of just trying to prevent it.”

With four children and a small business, Figg had never been involved in local activism before joining Clintonians Against Data Centers.

According to a recent NBC poll, nearly 70 percent of Americans oppose the construction of a data center in their area. Kevin Bradley of Clintonians Against Data Centers observed that this many Americans haven’t agreed on anything since 9/11: “This is affecting all of us—rich, middle-class, and poor. We’re coming together because we’re not happy.” More than 500 jurisdictions have passed moratoriums or bans. This grassroots movement rose so fast and spread so widely that politicians in both parties, including Iowa’s candidates for governor and senator, are struggling to catch up with their constituents. The meteoric emergence of the data-center rebellion is a response to the speed and scale of construction, which in turn reflect the sudden ubiquity of generative and agentic AI. President Trump’s policy has been to turn everything about the technology, including data-center construction, over to private industry. He derides people like Robbins, Figg, and Andrews for wanting to remain “backwards and poor.” But on this issue, most of Trump’s base remains angry and opposed to him; the only precedent might be the case of Jeffrey Epstein. By pushing so hard and promising so much, tech companies, venture capitalists, and their political allies ensured that AI would create a firestorm.

Supporters of data centers point out the benefits—jobs, tax revenues, the many advantages of AI itself. Clinton’s mayor, Scott Maddasion, told me that the project could bring $20 million in annual property taxes to a city with a $24 million budget. Sokolovich, of Grow Clinton, told me it would be closer to $30 million. He said that QTS has requested no tax incentives and will pay for 100 percent of the utility improvements required for the center to operate. A spokesman for Alliant Energy, the region’s regulated electric utility, promised residents that costs related to the data center’s extreme demand would not fall on existing customers.

[Read: The one town that wants a data center]

Clintonians Against Data Centers was not immune to bad information and conspiracist thinking. One member speculated that the sudden appearance around Clinton this past spring of three giant trolls, sculpted from local reclaimed lumber by the Danish artist Thomas Dambo to commemorate the trees consumed by the sawmills, had been funded by QTS to create a “diversion.” A pro-data-center councilman mocked Robbins when, after touring another QTS project in Cedar Rapids, she reported having seen only one bird. Baldus, the newspaper editor, complained that the opposition doesn’t understand how city government works, “and they come in hot.” Sokolovich analogized data-center opposition to COVID skepticism and election denialism.

But the facts about water consumption and tax revenues, though important, are not the crux of the matter. Opposition to data centers comes from a deeper concern than NIMBYism, resource misuse, or environmental harm. Over and over, Clintonians expressed a feeling of being misled, ignored, disrespected, betrayed—of having no say over basic matters in their own lives. The data center seemed to be a deal made among secretive insiders—huge, far-off entities in Silicon Valley, on Wall Street, and in Washington, as well as the local leaders of their own city. To the tech giants, QTS, Blackstone, and the Trump administration’s AI boosters, Clinton is an empty space on the Mississippi that looks like an opportunity. That the industry seeking to buy 1,100 acres on the west side of town is in the business of replacing human beings with machines—and perhaps, according to some AI experts, even rendering them extinct—only intensifies a sense of powerlessness.

The data-center rebellion, with its local origins and compounding grievances, is thoroughly American. In the 18th century, rural citizens rose up against heavy taxes and farm seizures. In the early 20th century, a time in many ways similar to our own, Louis Brandeis spoke of the “curse of bigness”: concentrations of money and power so great that the individual almost ceases to exist, and democracy itself is threatened. Like other heartland communities, Clinton has suffered “a history of abandonment,” Matt Parbs, the vice president of Grow Clinton, acknowledged. “Clinton since 1980 has internalized the downturn in midwestern industry.” What if, in a few years, 5 million square feet of steel, concrete, computer servers, and microchips in the cornfields become obsolete and go the way of the sawmills, or of the liberal-arts college in Clinton that was bought by a for-profit, moved entirely online, and closed?

I tried to imagine a hyper-scale data center engulfing the yard where Ryan Wisor’s daughter plays with the family’s chickens. Against such an immense force, with all the wealth, political power, technological sophistication, and claims of historical inevitability behind it, a sense of dignity can only raise a small voice in protest.

In a city the size of Clinton, the controversy over the data center was bound to hurt personal relationships. Linda Chapman, whose husband was the city’s fire marshal, knows all seven members of the city council and has stopped trusting most of them. Wisor and his stepsister on the council no longer speak. Andy Sokolovich, of Grow Clinton, can’t appear in public without someone sticking a phone camera in his face and asking him incendiary questions. The mayor received a death threat. But the converse is also true: To get anything done, Clintonians can’t just abuse one another on Facebook or podcasts. They have to sit in a room together and talk face-to-face.

Throughout the summer, the city pushed ahead with an ordinance while Clintonians Against Data Centers kept raising objections that were mostly ignored, hoping to stall the process until QTS decided to look elsewhere.

In early September, I attended a council meeting where the language of the ordinance was to be hammered out. To accommodate several hundred people, the meeting was held not at city hall, but in a cavernous pole-frame lodge at the northern end of the city, in a park overlooking the river. The president and vice president of Grow Clinton were not present. “I don’t want to say I’m intimidated, but the opposition has been vocal,” Sokolovich told me. “I’m growing weary of it.” Baldus, of the Clinton Herald, attended grudgingly, out of professional duty; he didn’t seem to regard coverage of the data center as the most exciting opportunity for his paper. Theresa Andrews, who was routinely staying up past 3 a.m. to research the issues and prepare for meetings, arrived with a tense look on her face and a binder full of scientific studies on topics such as the effects of noise and light on livestock.

The seven members of the steering committee, some in green CLINTONIANS AGAINST DATA CENTERS T-shirts, sat at a long table with their backs to the audience, facing Mayor Maddasion, the council, and other city officials. This would be a parley between two groups in which everyone now knew everyone. The mayor, an Air Force veteran in his early 40s with a receding hairline, slender and mild, gaveled the meeting to order and led the room in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

The meeting went on for more than five hours, while darkness fell over the Mississippi. With a draft of the data-center ordinance on the table in front of him, the mayor briskly led the council members and city officials through it section by section and took their comments. Then he heard out the criticisms and suggestions of Clintonians Against Data Centers. The most contentious issue was setbacks—the required distance between data-center buildings and neighboring residential properties. The draft ordinance called for 1,000 feet. Andrews, quoting a study from counties in Pennsylvania, argued for 1,500 feet—a distance that might make the whole project untenable. A councilman named Cody Seeley, who did most of the talking for the pro-data-center side, said that the developer and property owners could negotiate the setbacks, adding, “I think 500 feet is adequate,” which also happened to be QTS’s position.

Cries from the audience of “No! No!” The mayor called for silence. Ryan Wisor, for whom the setback question meant the defense of his homestead, said with a slight quaver in his voice: “My frustration is this ordinance is meant to protect the citizens and our property. This isn’t meant to conform so that we can fit a particular business in a particular piece of land.” He added, “For us to give up our rights, it’s not fair.” General applause. It was the emotional high point of the night.

I found the proceedings both mind-numbing and inspiring. The seriousness of purpose, the attention to detail, the stamina required to talk and listen—all of it moved me more than it seemed to impress anyone involved. Clintonians Against Data Centers still felt patronized and ignored. Perhaps the council came away exasperated with the NIMBYs and gadflies who were making the process such an ordeal. (Later, the mayor admitted to me, “We’re learning that there’s probably more ways that we can communicate with the citizens.”) In all likelihood, this small populist uprising will not achieve its goal; a hyperscale data center will come to Clinton, Iowa, amid widespread unhappiness and damaged friendships; and AI will continue to roll over the fields of the republic. But a democratic pulse was still beating along the Mississippi River. That was something.

This article appears in the November 2026 print edition with the headline “The Great Data-Center Rebellion.”

Right-Wing Groups Are Making Money off John Fetterman

2026-09-30T06:00:00-04:00

A Republican fundraising consultant alerted her colleagues this month in a private message about a hot new business opportunity from an unlikely source: Senator John Fetterman of Pennsylvania, a Democrat. “I thought you would be interested in this high performing Fetterman copy,” wrote Leah Mergener, an account associate at the GOP-aligned firm Blitz Digital Group. “It has been doing crazy numbers for us.”

The fundraising appeal was signed by Fetterman and included links to donate to his campaign fund. But the language was written to attract donors sympathetic to President Trump, and the money flowed through a payment-processing firm, Anedot, that is used by Republicans. “I’m always going to reject Socialism and the anti-American way of life,” read its subject line, before warning that socialists were “hijacking the Democratic party.”

Through the opportunity that Mergener proposed, conservative groups that sent the Fetterman appeal to their lists of donors would receive most of the money raised. “We are offering it a 75% split,” Mergener wrote in the message that we obtained. A Republican consultant explained to us that this means that 75 percent of the first donation each recipient made would be kicked back as a commission to the organization that sent the appeal; Fetterman would profit largely by gaining the contact information of new donors, allowing him to build a fundraising list he could use for a future campaign. Blitz Digital Group, which is a Virginia-based affiliate of the direct-mail firm HSP Direct, did not respond to requests for comment. Neither did the Fetterman campaign.

Fetterman’s message caught the attention of Senator Mike Lee of Utah, a Republican, who forwarded the note to his own fundraising list, then explicitly teased the idea of Fetterman switching parties if conservatives signed a petition. “I just got an email from John. He’s basically a Republican now,” Lee wrote in a solicitation that we obtained. “I need your help to draft him.” The link in Lee’s message leads to a petition, and an opportunity to give money to Lee’s own federal fundraising account. Lee’s office did not respond to a request for comment.

Just four years ago, Fetterman overcame a mid-campaign stroke to win his Senate seat as a new kind of left-leaning populist with a platform that included support for a $15 federal minimum wage and single-payer health care. He was helped by an endorsement from Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont, who identifies as a democratic socialist. But as the 2026 midterm elections approach, Fetterman has been vocal about feeling rejected by his party and is openly talking about leaving it over differences on support for Israel and the Iran war. His polling among Democrats in his state has collapsed, and he is likely to face multiple primary challengers if he chooses to run for reelection in 2028. Fetterman was noncommittal when asked during the Texas Tribune Festival in Austin on Saturday whether he would continue to caucus with Democrats.

[Read: Trump’s dream world in Dallas]

In June, his longtime relationship with a Democratic-aligned digital fundraising firm, MissionWired, ended. Shortly afterward, he forged a joint fundraising committee with Pennsylvania’s other senator, Dave McCormick, a Republican. In July, Fetterman joined a group of Republican politicians for a retreat with Fox News executives at Rupert Murdoch’s ranch in Montana. On September 9, he spoke in a recorded address at Trump’s midterm convention in Dallas, delivering a message about rejecting socialism that would feature in his fundraising solicitation later that month. During that address, he introduced McCormick, whose campaign Fetterman had aggressively opposed in 2024. At the time, he called McCormick a “rich dude” trying to buy his way into the Senate, but the two have since cultivated a close relationship. Fetterman, who has few friends in the Democratic caucus, has also developed a friendship with Republican Senator Katie Britt of Alabama; the two have gathered for dinners, joint interviews, and family group texts.

Days after speaking at the midterm convention, Fetterman’s political operation began working with a Republican-aligned firm to start arranging emails and text messages to acquire new conservative donors, which were first reported by The Intercept. Fetterman’s missives were circulated by more than a dozen political operations with domain names such as America1stWarRoom.com, ConstitutionPatriots.com, RedMajorities.com, TheDesantisDaily.com, and TrumpTruths.org, according to records collected by the Archive of Political Emails. The new effort deepens the mystery around his political intentions and is a cause for concern for Democratic leaders. Fetterman’s refusal to limit himself to the Democratic ecosystem could matter a great deal next year, especially if he finds himself as the decisive swing vote and holds the power to decide which party will control the Senate.

Democratic donors showered Fetterman with cash when he ran in 2022, allowing him to raise more than $37 million in small donations—nearly five times more than the $7.7 million raised in smaller donations by Mehmet Oz, his Republican opponent, according to federal records. But times have changed. Only 12 percent of Democrats now view Fetterman favorably, according to a recent New York Times survey of likely voters in Pennsylvania. That’s compared with 75 percent of Republicans in the state who view him favorably. Nearly 60 percent of those surveyed considered him more of a Republican than a Democrat. He currently has about $2 million in his campaign account, according to the most recent federal filing.

Fetterman has attributed this rejection by Democrats to his outspoken support for Israel and the war against Iran, along with his decision to vote to fund parts of the government earlier this year, breaking with his Democratic colleagues who were protesting Trump’s immigration policies. He has told reporters that he is mystified that Democrats would turn on a lawmaker who votes with the party about 90 percent of the time. “I can’t explain it. I mean, I haven’t changed my views,” he said at the Texas Tribune Festival. He also maintains that he has no interest in becoming a Republican, arguing that the party would not accept him because of his positions on abortion rights and other liberal issues. He has seen how Republicans treat senators such as John Cornyn of Texas, Bill Cassidy of Louisiana, and Thom Tillis of North Carolina when they disagree with party orthodoxy. “I’m not going to be a Republican!” he shouted recently, as he waited for an elevator on Capitol Hill, fending off questions from reporters. “Why can’t you guys just wait ’til the midterm, you know? And if I turn a Republican and then—I’ll be a liar, then?”

Democrats we spoke with in Pennsylvania told us that Fetterman is unlikely to win a Democratic primary for reelection in 2028. That would leave him with three options: retirement, becoming a Republican, or running as an independent, which would force a three-way race unless one of the major parties chooses not to field a candidate. “His career as a Democrat is over. We didn’t push him away. He threw it away,” Conor Lamb, a former representative who ran against Fetterman in the 2022 Democratic primary, told us. “He is the one that made a decision to do what Trump wanted instead of what Democrats wanted.”

Lamb is one of several Democrats considering a campaign for Fetterman’s seat in 2028. Representative Chris Deluzio of Pennsylvania, another potential Democratic candidate, told us that Fetterman has become a distraction as the party tries to win midterm races. “Anyone who stands in the way of that work will have to answer to the voters soon enough,” he said.

[Read: The Republicans are bolting from Trump ]

But if Fetterman decided to switch teams sooner, that could help Republicans keep control of the Senate after the midterms. Senate Majority Leader John Thune told reporters that he has had conversations with Fetterman about the challenges he faces in the Democratic caucus. “If he ever comes to the conclusion that he’s ready to move, we would certainly welcome it,” he said. Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer reiterated that Democrats “very much like him and respect him” and that the party is big enough to accommodate his views. The two had dinner in August.

One plugged-in Democratic operative described the current dynamic to us like this: “Dems are bitter and resentful, and these guys are sitting there with open arms.”

As recently as June, Fetterman sounded like an entirely different politician in his fundraising appeals. He told donors about needing four seats to flip the Senate. There were messages backing Rob Sand in Iowa, Jon Ossoff in Georgia, and James Talarico in Texas. There was an email warning about how “dangerous” Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s policies were, and how “the GOP is coming after Social Security.” In one appeal on June 30, he wrote: “At a time like this, it’s crucial we hit our goals and keep up the pressure on Trump and extremist Republicans.” That is the last email from Fetterman captured by the Archive of Political Emails for several months. Then, this month, messages from Fetterman shifted to warn about socialism.

[Read: Jon Ossoff is doing something different]

Fetterman’s previous fundraising firm, MissionWired, was founded by Anne Lewis, a former deputy executive director of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee, and it works with Democratic Senate candidates such as Sherrod Brown in Ohio and Adam Hamilton in Kansas. “MissionWired ended its engagement with Senator Fetterman’s campaign in June 2026,” Kate Kline, the firm’s CEO, told us in a statement. “We had no involvement in a revenue-sharing plan with Republican entities, and if we had become aware, we would have objected to the strategy and refused the work.”

Blitz Digital Group, by contrast, has been working with Republicans whom Fetterman previously opposed. The group has received fees this cycle from the National Republican Senatorial Committee and from Mike Collins, a Republican Senate candidate in Georgia. The firm describes itself as a specialist in “building online donor prospecting programs for conservative non-profits, candidates, PAC’s and associations.” The firm’s parent company, HSP Direct, describes itself as “a premier conservative direct mail fundraising agency,” and its clients include Jon Husted, the Republican senator from Ohio who is running this cycle against Brown.

One Republican digital consultant told us, after requesting anonymity to discuss the arrangements, that although the relationships Fetterman is building are unusual, fundraising-list brokers typically push the language that performs the best, and that there is clear appeal for a Democrat who is willing to echo Republican talking points about socialism. “Assuming he believes all the things he says,” the consultant said about Fetterman, “it is just a natural place to go, because he agrees with Republicans on some things.”

Can the Polls Possibly Be Right?

2026-09-29T08:00:00-04:00

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When this year began, the Democrats were heavy underdogs to take back the Senate in the midterms. The task would require not only toppling Susan Collins in Maine but also winning at least five states that voted for Donald Trump in 2024, while holding on to all of the party’s existing seats. The realistic best-case scenario seemed to be a replay of the so-called blue-wave 2018 election, during Trump’s first term, in which Democrats took back the House but the Senate remained in Republican hands. To gain control of the upper chamber, Democrats would need an incredible stroke of luck. They might have gotten one.

Trump’s decision to start a war with Iran, and the resulting spike in oil prices, shifted the boundaries of the politically possible. A year ago, Trump was merely unpopular: By about 11 percentage points, more people disapproved of his performance than approved of it, according to The New York Times’ polling average. He would kill for such good numbers today. Seven months into the Iran debacle, his disapproval margin has widened to 23 percentage points—worse than his numbers in the immediate aftermath of January 6.

Predictably, Trump’s unpopularity is spilling out into the midterm races. Recent polls have been almost unbelievably positive for Democrats. Troy Jackson is ahead, albeit narrowly, in Maine. Abdul El-Sayed has a modest lead in Michigan, and Democrats have even bigger advantages in the swing states of Georgia and North Carolina, both of which Trump won in 2024. Most astonishing, Democratic candidates are in position to pull off upsets in Alaska, Texas, Ohio, and Iowa, which all went for Trump by more than 10 percentage points. Republican incumbents look beatable even in Kansas, where Trump won by 16, and Nebraska, where he won by 20. As a result, in prediction markets, Democrats’ chances of winning the Senate are now more than 60 percent.

[Read: The supporters urging Trump to declare martial law for the midterms]

If the election in November plays out as the polls are suggesting it will, Republicans will have their leader to thank—and themselves. With few exceptions, Republican candidates have created almost no distance from the president. Indeed, candidates in must-win red states, including Jon Husted of Ohio and Ken Paxton of Texas, gave speeches at the same Republican midterm convention where Trump led the audience in a pledge to the “greatest president in the history of the United States.”

Democrats, by contrast, have been relatively disciplined. Candidates with a track record of winning over moderate voters were successfully recruited in Alaska, North Carolina, Iowa, Maine, Ohio, and Nebraska, and primary voters in those states were wise enough to nominate them (or, in Nebraska’s case, nominate someone who promised to drop out in favor of an independent with a better chance to win). Even where candidates with narrower appeal were nominated, as in Texas and Michigan, they have been cannily pivoting away from their unpopular progressive stances.

If Democrats won both the House and Senate, they would be able to put a real check on Trump’s ambitions for the rest of his presidency. His legislative agenda would be at their mercy. Democrats would use their control of committees in both chambers to launch extensive investigations into government wrongdoing and corruption. And Trump’s judicial nominees would need to make a convincing case that they’d be impartial judges, not dogmatic loyalists.

A Democratic sweep would have ripple effects beyond 2026. Each Senate seat that the party picks up this year makes winning in 2028 that much easier. If the electoral environment remains favorable for Democrats two years from now, the party could feasibly pick up seats in Wisconsin and North Carolina. Suddenly, a stronger, more diverse, and more nationally competitive Democratic Party is at least imaginable.

All of this analysis hinges on assuming that the polls are accurate. For three presidential elections in a row, pollsters have badly underestimated Trump’s appeal. And in general, as the Republican pollster Patrick Ruffini has pointed out, the pro-Democratic bias tends to be largest in red states, the very ones that Democrats need in order to take back the Senate. Moreover, not every poll has looked good for Democrats—a recent New York Times and Siena College survey found Collins ahead in Maine, though Jackson leads in most polls.

[Read: The Republicans are bolting from Trump]

The good news for Democrats is that Trump-era midterm polls have been highly accurate on average, much more so than in presidential-election years. That’s because the midterm electorate includes fewer of the low-trust, politically disengaged voters who are so hard for pollsters to reach and disproportionately turn out when Trump is on the ballot.

Even if the polls are accurate, things could change between now and November 3. Perhaps Trump could find a way to credibly declare victory in Iran. Individual Democratic candidates could become embroiled in scandal. Republican candidates could figure out how to distance themselves from Trump down the stretch.

Yet the likeliest scenario at the moment, hard as it is to believe, is Democrats winning multiple Senate seats in states that Trump won in 2024 by double digits, taking control of both houses of Congress, earning the right to be involved in the legislative process, and providing a meaningful check on Trump’s power. The remarkable fact is that Republicans are now the party hoping for a stroke of good luck.