After 20 Years of Resistance, Trump Is Walling Off the Rio Grande Valley

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Editor’s Note: This story is copublished with The Border Chronicle.

About 10 miles upstream from the mouth of the Rio Grande, along a quiet bend of the river near a historic Civil War battle site, Mexican fishermen in overalls casting their nets into the water are a familiar sight. Brown pelicans sometimes follow fishing boats hoping to catch a snack. The sound of water splashing along the riverbank from the wake of a boat is oddly comforting. 

But these days, as far as the eye can see along the natural border, small white buoys are sporadically placed marking a “restricted area” and declaring the river as property of the federal Department of Defense, part of President Donald Trump’s ongoing efforts to militarize the region. Small signs are wrapped around the buoys here, east of the border city of Brownsville. And these warning signs are only one small indicator of the vast change about to sweep through the river.

More than a year into Trump’s second stint in the White House, fast-paced border barrier construction has been steadily proceeding through areas of the Rio Grande Valley both on land and in the river itself. Last year, Congress appropriated nearly $47 billion for border barrier construction, encompassing both 30-foot-tall steel fencing and river barrier made up of larger orange buoys to deter crossers, and including surveillance technology. This is a historic investment in finishing the barrier in the Valley—which spans about 150 miles by car and 275 river-miles from Cameron County upriver through Hidalgo and Starr Counties and currently hosts disconnected stretches of both federal- and state-built border fencing. 

It’s a region that’s historically been difficult for wall-building presidents to conquer due to varying terrain and the fact that the riverfront land is held by private landowners often with complicated claims dating back centuries. But the Trump administration’s present plans to add another 90 or so miles of new and replacement wall would finish sealing off the region from the Brownsville Ship Channel all the way up to Falcon Dam, completing the job that George W. Bush and Barack Obama started. 

From trucks loaded up with the orange buoys—measuring 15 feet long and 4 to 5 feet wide—driving through the pothole-ridden streets of Southmost in Brownsville to shipments of steel border wall bollard panels hauled down Valley highways, the rapid spending of these taxpayer dollars is displayed all around the region.

Buoy barrier floats downriver from the Veterans International Bridge in Brownsville on March 6. (Michael Gonzalez for the Texas Observer)

“For months, I’ve been documenting the Department of Homeland Security and their masked contractors installing buoys in the Rio Grande,” Bekah Hinojosa, a co-founder of the South Texas Environmental Justice Network (SOTXEJN), told the Texas Observer. “The Department of Homeland Security is not being clear intentionally about what their plans are, what they’re deploying in the region, and so it’s up to us in the community to track and document and report on it. This is how we fight back.”

A staging ground where the orange buoys are received by the truckload is situated a stone’s throw from the Veterans International bridge in Brownsville. On March 6 around noon, a mix of masked and unmasked construction workers unloaded the buoys. In the river, fragmented sections floated on the U.S. side. This section is set to receive 17 miles of buoys, at a cost of $96 million. According to a Customs and Border Protection (CBP) online “Smart Wall Map,” the agency plans to install over 500 miles of buoys in the Rio Grande, from the Gulf upriver well beyond the Valley and even past Eagle Pass.

Standing amid the brush on the riverbank that Friday, and as a boat driven by a construction worker passed, Carrizo/Comecrudo Tribe member and SOTXEJN co-founder Dr. Christopher Basaldú stared quietly at the bright-orange objects floating in the river. He worried about the buoys further polluting the river that supplies water not only to over 1.5 million residents in the region but also to the wildlife that coexists—and about the broader moral issues. 

“What the barrier buoys are doing, just like the wall, is that it’s saying that all the human beings that live on the other side of the buoys and the wall are disposable, or their lives are meaningless,” Basaldú said. “It’s showing that the government is willing to literally waste billions upon billions of dollars to make these useless walls … instead of taking that exact same money and making sure that everybody has housing or clean water and food and education.”

While the Observer documented the buoys floating in the river and trucks delivering them, a construction worker pulled a neck gaiter up to cover his face and approached. The worker declared the riverfront area a federal project and repeatedly demanded press credentials, which he then photographed.

With the help of community members, Hinojosa took point on drafting a letter taking a stance against the installation of buoys in the river and detailing concerns regarding human rights violations and ecologically damaging effects. After approaching Cameron County Judge Eddie Treviño at a forum in February to hand-deliver the letter, Hinojosa asked him to take a public stance in opposition. A week and a half later, Judge Treviño introduced a symbolic resolution, and the county commission voted unanimously against the buoys.

As for border wall, much of Cameron County already had the fencing prior to Trump’s second term, but the CBP map shows plans for significant additions and replacements. At the southern end of UT-Rio Grande Valley’s Brownsville campus, the map shows new wall—which is typically 30 feet tall under both Trump administrations—replacing a shorter, green mesh fence, which had been a significant compromise in the first era of Valley wall construction. The wall is also projected to skirt just south of a golf resort that was previously spared.

Upriver, much of the planned border wall construction will fill in gaps in between existing sections in Hidalgo County (in addition to new buoys). In 2019, Congress passed a bill adding protections to exempt certain sites from border wall construction in Hidalgo including the historic La Lomita Chapel, Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge, National Butterfly Center, and Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park. Seven years later, these sites face renewed challenges ahead—as last year’s “One Big Beautiful Bill” did not reiterate those protections and as the CBP map currently projects border barrier construction running through each site, with the associated contract being recently awarded. Laredo Congressman Henry Cuellar has previously said he believes the protections should still apply; he did not provide comment by press time for this article.

In most of Hidalgo County, home to McAllen, the border wall is built (dating back to the early Obama administration and continuing in Trump 1.0) by converting an existing earthen levee, sloped and simple to drive or walk over, into a sheer concrete wall topped with steel bollards (in Cameron County, the steel fencing has been built adjacent to the levee, while in Starr there is no levee to convert or build beside). This means the wall takes a meandering path through important sites; for example, the levee runs just 100 feet north of the humble white La Lomita chapel, and it bisects the butterfly refuge. Under Trump, the standard wall design has also included a 150-foot clear-cut “enforcement zone” adjacent to the barrier.

CBP spokesperson John Mennell said that the online map, which shows the fence running through the protected sites, “accurately depicts current wall planning efforts”—and that “All recently awarded projects and future contract awards are funded with [One Big Beautiful Bill Act] OBBBA funds.” Mennell said the contract for the project that includes the protected sites—labeled “Rio Grande Valley 4”—was awarded on March 18. Regarding La Lomita specifically, he said that access “will not be impeded,” with access gates installed “as needed.”


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In between the chapel and the butterfly center is where the Cavazos family land is found. North of the levee, they have a family home; on the south side they have riverfront acreage where they keep cattle and rent out lots. Siblings Fred and Lisa Cavazos are no strangers to fighting against border wall construction. They’re a rare case in the area: Despite not receiving congressional protection during Trump’s first term, they managed to fight off the wall through legal maneuvering and widespread press attention.

On a windy March afternoon at their family property, Fred and his cousin, Rey Anzaldúa, recalled working the land under the ownership of their grandmother when they were teenagers. Fred’s father was a farmer, so they would help out with those tasks in addition to improvement projects that their grandmother would request help with. “This is my interest in this property because I spent most of my teenage years here,” Anzaldúa, who lives in nearby Edinburg, said. “Even if I don’t own any of the property, I consider this my home.”

Cousins Fred Cavazos and Rey Anzaldúa on a pier overlooking the Rio Grande at their family property (Michael Gonzalez for the Texas Observer)

Since the beginning of Trump’s efforts to build through their family land, Anzaldúa told Fred that he would only help if they never backed off and fought until the end. Anzaldúa had experience in opposing the government over border wall construction in the small town just down the road where he was born, El Granjeno, which eventually saw the levee at its southern boundary converted. Wall in this area was funded under the W. Bush administration and built by Obama.

At 81 years old, Anzaldúa is once again ready and willing to help Fred fight to prevent the border wall from infringing upon the Cavazos land. The future of their fight is uncertain as construction progresses daily on properties much too close for comfort. 

But one thing should slow Trump down. After years of the family’s maneuvering aimed at delay, the Biden administration returned the strip of the Cavazos’ land that Trump had condemned for wall construction. The family hasn’t received any notice yet of new eminent domain proceedings and only discovered that wall construction would once again encroach upon their property from recent news coverage. The spokesperson for CBP said that the agency “engages with landowners and relevant stakeholders” and noted that there are access gates in existing wall near the Cavazos property.

In flood-prone Starr County, the most rural of the Valley’s three border counties, wall construction has been stymied in large part for two decades. Without an existing levee, there’s no clear path for the barrier to follow, and planners must decide between routing it through residential areas or through active floodplains, which can worsen local flooding or threaten the structure itself. In his first administration, Trump only managed to build through a couple short stretches of federal refuge toward the county’s western end.

But now, on the heels of some state-level wall construction in the county by Governor Greg Abbott, the buildout is moving like there’s no tomorrow. 

According to the CBP planning map, projects are contracted out or under construction to wall off Starr from end to end. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service manages over 100 fragmented tracts of land across the Lower Rio Grande Valley National Wildlife Refuge, and several of these are sprinkled across Starr County and have recently been partially stripped as site preparations are made. 

The CBP spokesperson said that, when building in a floodplain, the agency “conducts a hydraulics analysis … to ensure construction does not alter the natural flow of the Rio Grande River or increase significantly flood waters into Mexico.”

Much like Fred Cavazos and Rey Anzaldúa, Nayda Alvarez is yet again preparing to fight with all that she has to prevent her family land from being taken for border wall construction. Looking up at the roof from the back of her home, Alvarez takes note of the fading letters that she painted on the shingles reading “No Border Wall.” When she first painted the letters 7 years ago, Alvarez hoped to grab the attention of any helicopter pilots flying above her home so that they would know where she stands on the controversial issue of border wall construction. “I should repaint it, but first I need to replace the roof,” Alvarez said, while staring pensively at her home in Starr County, located between Roma and Rio Grande City and about 250 feet from the Rio Grande.

During Trump’s first term, she faced the prospect of border wall construction tearing through her peaceful property, with her home possibly within the path. Alvarez was represented by the Texas Civil Rights Project, which also represented the Cavazos family, and the American Civil Liberties Union of Texas as she navigated land survey requests, the possibility of eminent domain, and going in and out of the courtroom for hearings. Alvarez recalled the judge looking over a map and stating that there was nothing of value on her property. Alvarez grew up here—and her dad lives here in a separate house—making a lifetime of memories in the process. 

Ultimately, the case was dismissed, but Alvarez remained skeptical that her family land would be spared from the wall forever. Nearly three years ago, under then-President Biden, the administration announced 20 miles of border wall to be built in Starr County using money appropriated under Trump—though not including her home. Alvarez, a Democrat, felt betrayed. 

“It’s like déjà vu, but this time people aren’t interested in fighting the wall anymore like they were before,” Alvarez said. 

Alvarez has been teaching for 28 years, and last year she became eligible for retirement. Despite wanting to retire, Alvarez holds onto her job because of the fear that she may be forced to leave her lifelong home and take on a mortgage elsewhere.

Looking at the current CBP map, it’s hard to tell exactly where the wall will run in relation to her house. Alvarez recently received a letter asking landowners for permission to survey their property, leading her to believe that border wall construction will soon make its way to her doorstep. 

The wall in Alvarez’s area will be built “closer to the riverfront than the houses,” said the CBP spokesperson.

“A lot of people are fine with it,” Alvarez said. “I tell them, ‘Yeah, because it’s not going to affect you. You’re not the one that’s going to lose access to the river.’” 

Upriver in Roma, a border town of about 10,000, a historic central plaza sits atop a river bluff. The CBP map shows the wall running somewhere roughly along the tiny strip of land between the water and the bluff, but Roma’s city manager said the city was unaware of any plans to build the typical 30-foot wall through this area. The CBP spokesperson said that “In most locations, [the agency] is constructing 30-foot-tall border wall panels; however, in this location the design has not been finalized and CBP will work with the contractor to determine the wall height.”

Just downstream of the plaza is the international bridge, then a colonia called De La Cruz, and then a short section of state-built border wall. 

José Noe Loera, a truck driver, grew up in the De La Cruz colonia and currently lives at his parents’ home beside the Rio Grande, while he saves to buy a house for his wife and three kids. His parents, who have lived in the neighborhood for over 30 years, built a home around 15 to 16 years ago, which sits atop a foundation more than 2 feet tall in the event that another flood sweeps through the area similar to the last such major event in 2010

An aerial view of the De La Cruz colonia on March 4 (Michael Gonzalez for the Texas Observer)

Looking toward the state-built border wall visible from their backyard, Loera was surprised to hear that a CBP map currently shows a 34.1-mile section of border wall marked as under contract that would run through their backyard. From Loera’s parents’ backyard, the riverbank is less than 200 feet. From other homes in their neighborhood, backyards are less than 100 feet away. Without exact plans from CBP, the possibility looms that homes will be acquired through eminent domain and demolished. 

Sitting in the carport next to their home as his kids laughed and played around us, Loera expressed the sadness of such a reality. “Where are we going to go?,” Loera said. “First of all, we don’t got nowhere to go. It’s going to be sad, leaving all these memories here where we grew up.”

The agency spokesperson said the wall here “will be constructed adjacent to the patrol road along the river” and that “CBP does not anticipate needing to acquire the land where the houses are situated.”

Meanwhile, toward the far western edge of Starr County, a 2.6-acre tract of land just shy of the riverbank constitutes a global birding destination known as the Salineño Wildlife Preserve, owned by the Valley Land Fund. 

Just upriver from the birding destination, a section of the border wall is listed as currently under construction according to the CBP map. Avid bird watcher Bob Bowman, who has spent the last three years volunteering at the wildlife preserve during the November-March bird watching season, told the Observer that every day bulldozers, trucks, and general construction noise can be heard.

On the CBP map, the planned wall runs just north of the preserve. But Bowman shared concerns that once construction starts closer to the property, they will likely have to close for at least one season due to the noise and “unbelievable amount of destruction” caused. It remains uncertain if there will be a gate providing access to the wildlife preserve. The CBP spokesperson said that “access gates may be incorporated to provide access to land south of the wall, if required.”

Bowman sees the wall itself as a smaller issue compared to how the landscape around a proposed construction site is demolished. The barren enforcement zone surrounding sections of the border wall is a man-made “wasteland,” he said.     

“Will it affect the birds?” Bowman said. “Of course it will affect the birds. It’s massive amounts of habitat that get wiped out by this thing.”

The post After 20 Years of Resistance, Trump Is Walling Off the Rio Grande Valley appeared first on The Texas Observer.

‘Riding Shotgun’

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Editor’s Note: The following is a preview of a new podcast released by the Texas Observer and Free Range Productions. Look for The Unforgotten—season five: “Riding Shotgun”—wherever you get your podcasts.

Jill Barganier, a petite blond mother of three from the Dallas suburb of Farmers Branch, has been asked many times over the past three decades to recall what she saw from her window on January 29, 1998. 

That morning, Barganier peered through her blinds and watched an odd car pull up in front of her neighbors’ house. It was a pink-and-purple Volkswagen Beetle, with a psychedelic paint job and bumper stickers advocating for peace, love, and the Grateful Dead. It seemed unusual for her neighbors, the Blacks, a couple in their 60s whose kids had long since left the house, to get an early-morning visit from hippies. The situation turned more bizarre when two men got out of the car. 

The driver, a man who looked about 30 years old, with long, dirty hair and blue eyes, took a swig from a glass beer bottle. It was so early—Barganier hadn’t even woken her husband up for work yet. Who started drinking before the sun was even up? She caught sight of the passenger, too. For a moment, he looked in her direction. His hair was also long, down to his shoulders, and his hair and eyes were both darker than his friend’s. That’s all she really processed before closing the blinds. 

A few hours later, she’d find out she was perhaps the most critical witness in a murder investigation. 

The two men had broken into her neighbors’ house through the garage and shot and killed Betty Black, who was an unofficial grandma to the kids of the modest neighborhood. They ransacked the house and left, seemingly without taking anything. Black’s husband, Bill, discovered her body when he got home from an early trip to work. 

It didn’t take long for Barganier to identify the driver of the VW in a photo lineup. She had gotten a good look at him, and that beer bottle stuck in her mind. She picked out a photo of Richard Childs, known to most as Ric, and told police he was the one she’d seen.

For weeks, then months, she wasn’t able to identify the passenger, though. She was shown photo lineups and helped create composite sketches—which showed a man who bore a resemblance to Childs—and she even requested that the police hypnotize her to see if she could remember any more relevant details. A young officer who’d taken a class on investigative hypnosis two years prior conducted the interview. It was his first and last hypnosis interview, and it didn’t yield anything new or explosive. It seemed to police as if they’d gotten all the useful information they were going to get out of Barganier. 

Meanwhile, investigators, through other leads, had zeroed in on local drug dealer Charles Flores as the man they believed had been riding shotgun that morning. He was a friend of Childs’, a heavy-set Hispanic man who wore his hair shaved or close-cropped. Officers showed his picture to Barganier in one of the lineups, but she shook her head. 

Even so, investigators pursued the case against Flores, fueled largely by intel from the Dallas-area drug scene. They built a capital murder case against him, and in 1999, over a year after the murder, they called Barganier to the stand. There, she dropped a bomb that obliterated the defense’s case.

Before the judge and jury, she declared Flores was, in fact, the man she saw in front of her neighbors’ house that morning. It was a stunning turn of events, after so many months of her being unable to ID anyone and describing a passenger who looked entirely different from the large man on trial.  

The turn also came after she’d seen Flores’ face in news reports about the murder for over a year—and after that seemingly unhelpful hypnosis session. Suddenly, she was positive Flores was the guy. With the help of her testimony, the state secured a death sentence.

Flores has now sat on Texas’ death row for nearly half his life, with appeal after appeal shot down by the courts. But he remains adamant that he was not the passenger in the car that January morning. 

Barganier’s hypnosis and her stunning about-face on the witness stand have been central to Flores’ appeals efforts. But her testimony was just one part of the state’s case against Flores—who had a criminal history and a known temper. The Dallas County District Attorney’s office hasn’t shown any support for Flores’ appeals, even though it has disavowed its own prosecutions in other cases. It seems that, for the office’s current leadership, the Flores conviction was just.

But since 2016, Flores has had the help of tenacious appeals attorney Gretchen Sween, who recently helped Robert Roberson avoid execution in one of the state’s most high-profile death penalty cases in years. For a decade, Sween has picked apart the threads of the state’s case—from Barganier’s legitimacy as a witness to the crucial statements from co-defendants who later got sweet deals—and she’s convinced that the conviction was a house of cards.

“They have no DNA. They have no fingerprints. They have no ballistics. They have no fibers—they have nothing that you would think of as objective evidence connecting Charles to this crime scene,” Sween said in an interview last year.

For the past several months, I’ve been looking into the investigation of the murder of Betty Black and the prosecution of Charles Flores. This March, the Texas Observer and Free Range Productions launched a six-part podcast series about the case. The series is the fifth season of the true-crime podcast The Unforgotten, which is available on all major platforms, including Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you like to listen.

To hear the rest of the story I’ve uncovered, just search “The Unforgotten” in your preferred podcast app, and look for season five, “Riding Shotgun.”

The post ‘Riding Shotgun’ appeared first on The Texas Observer.

How the Prairieland ‘Antifa’ Verdict Threatens the Anti-Trump Resistance

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Late last week, federal prosecutors notched a victory in an unprecedented and controversial trial that sought to tie alleged members of “Antifa,” a decentralized anti-fascist movement, to domestic terrorism. A Tarrant County jury returned a mixed verdict for nine defendants, who were accused of a variety of crimes stemming from a July 4 “noise demonstration” outside the Prairieland immigrant detention center in Alvarado and the nonfatal shooting there of a police officer. 

Prosecutors argued the defendants constituted a “North Texas Antifa cell” that shared anti-Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and anti-government beliefs—and that all nine played a role in the shooting that occurred, despite several government witnesses, who took plea deals, testifying at trial that they were surprised when the protest turned violent and that they and the other defendants did not belong to the purported Antifa group. The defendants said the protest, which involved setting off fireworks and acts of vandalism, was intended to show solidarity with migrants in detention at Prairieland. 

Benjamin Song, Savanna Batten, Zachary Evetts, Meagan Morris, Maricela Rueda, Autumn Hill, Elizabeth Soto, and Ines Soto were convicted on felony charges of providing material support to terrorists, rioting, conspiracy to use and carry an explosive, and use and carry of an explosive (the aforementioned fireworks). Daniel Sanchez Estrada was convicted of corruptly concealing a document or record, and along with his wife, Rueda, was also convicted of conspiracy to conceal documents. Song, the alleged shooter, was also convicted on one count of attempted murder and other gun charges, while Hill, Evetts, Morris and Rueda were acquitted of the attempted murder and discharging a firearm charges.

“I think this is the worst-case-scenario verdict,” said Luis, a member of the DFW Support Committee, a group working to support the Prairieland defendants, who requested that the Texas Observer use only his first name for fear of reprisal. Even had the shooting never occurred, Luis said, the verdict suggests the jury would have convicted the defendants anyway for actions that are common to many protests.

Attorney General Pam Bondi and President Donald Trump in August (Shutterstock)

The case represents the federal government’s first use of material support for terrorism charges against alleged Antifa members. Experts say the outcome will give the Trump administration the green light to take a more aggressive stance against left-wing activity and further politicize the use of domestic terrorism laws.

“It probably will embolden them to perhaps offer additional characterization of entities or groups … animated by some sort of anti-administration agenda as some species of Antifa,” said Tom Brzozowski, former counsel for domestic terrorism at the Department of Justice.

Mike German, a former FBI agent specializing in domestic terrorism and covert operations who later worked for the Brennan Center for Justice, told the Observer that the case demonstrates the broad scope of domestic terrorism laws and the ability they provide prosecutors to target behaviors that most people wouldn’t consider terrorism.

This case was a difficult one for those who sought to protect anti-fascist First Amendment-protected activities, “because there was a shooting of a police officer,” German said. “We can debate the nature of that injury [the officer was hospitalized and released within 24 hours], but it provides the locus of attention for viewing this particular protest as a dangerous event. There was an act of violence. And the domestic terrorism laws are very broad in this country. The [legal] definition of what is an explosive would probably shock most people.”

German also worries about the further politicization of domestic terrorism charges. 

“The Trump administration and the media had demonized Antifa all through the first Trump term, and even more aggressively in the second,” German said. “This concept of terrorism tends to become politicized, particularly when government officials intentionally politicize it.”

The application of domestic terrorism charges in the case came after President Donald Trump signed an executive order in September labeling “Antifa” a domestic terrorist group, a designation that doesn’t exist in federal law. That same month, Trump issued National Security Presidential Memorandum-7, which cited the Prairieland case and the assassination of Charlie Kirk as evidence of organized political violence from the left. 

“I still am highly suspicious of the sequencing,” Brzozowski said, noting that the series of indictments based on the Antifa terrorism claims came after Kirk’s death and the executive order. “It’s pretty facially an attempt to mollify the White House post Charlie Kirk’s assassination. … What I’m seeing is the unfettered use of these very powerful tools and these very powerful statutes, absent any sort of norms or guardrails that normally would be in place to guard against overreach.” 

KERA News reported that at least two jurors were “visibly distraught” before Judge Mark Pittman read the verdict and that families and friends of the defendants let out sobs as Pittman delivered it. 

Amber Lowery, Batten’s sister, was stunned. “I guess we allowed ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security by the things that we saw,” Lowery told the Observer.  For example, the prosecution argued in filings and in court that the defendants used “black bloc”—a longstanding protest tactic of dressing in all-black to conceal identities from police and political adversaries—to make those who committed illegal acts indistinguishable to law enforcement. But video evidence and courtroom testimony revealed that the defendants did not in fact wear all black.

The prosecution relied on the expert witness testimony of Kyle Shideler, a researcher at the Center for Security Policy—a far-right think tank that the Southern Poverty Law Center has branded an anti-Muslim hate group—who said under questioning from a defense attorney that he provided language defining Antifa that prosecutors used in the indictments. 

As The Intercept reported, Shideler was the author of a September article titled “How to Dismantle Far-Left Extremist Networks: A Roadmap for the Trump Administration.” He also defined Antifa while testifying before the Senate Judiciary Committee in October as: “a militant enterprise made up of networks of individuals and small groups primarily ascribing to revolutionary anarchist or autonomous Marxist ideology, which explicitly calls for the overthrow of the United States Government, law enforcement authorities, and system of law.”

Despite not having to actually prove that Antifa is an established terrorist organization in the case, Assistant U.S. Attorney Shawn Smith said in his closing arguments that tactics commonly used by Antifa-affiliated individuals were a key part of providing material support to terrorism.

Lowery worries that behaviors she considers normal—attending protests, using encrypted messaging apps, reading certain types of political literature—could be used to argue for domestic terrorism charges in future cases involving civil disobedience. For example, Estrada was charged and convicted for concealing documents after he moved a box of left-wing zines and literature from the home of another defendant.

“It’s anyone and everyone who is pushing back against the insanity that is gripping our country right now,” Lowery said. “This can happen to you, and if they can do it to you, they will.”

The trial itself was marked by surprises and irregularities: a mistrial, judge-selected jurors, limited access to the courtroom, the defense resting without calling a single witness, and the prosecution’s sharing of unredacted evidence with jurors. 

Judge Pittman declared an initial mistrial during jury selection, which began on the day of civil rights leader Jesse Jackson’s death, citing a shirt depicting civil rights leaders worn by defense attorney MarQuetta “MarQ” Clayton during questioning of jurors—a vocal portion of whom expressed anti-ICE and anti-Trump sentiments when questioned by Pittman and Smith. George Lobb, Rueda’s attorney in state court, questioned the motivations of that decision. “The shirt didn’t become a problem until the jurors started talking about their bias and prejudices against and for ICE and against and for guns,” Lobb told KERA. As a result, Pittman exercised his powers to make the unusual move to take control over jury selection for the second trial attempt. 

The convicted defendants are now awaiting sentencing. Most face up to decades in prison, while Song, the convicted shooter, could receive a life sentence. Most are expected to appeal, which will bring their cases to the 5th Circuit, a notoriously far-right court that has in recent years routinely issued opinions so extreme that they’ve been overruled by the Supreme Court, which is itself considered quite right-wing

Now, with an anti-Antifa victory under its belt, the federal government is poised to act on plans mapped out in a December 4 memo from Attorney General Pam Bondi that instructed law enforcement to investigate Antifa and other supposed domestic terrorist groups. On March 18, CBS News reported that federal agents are launching an initiative to investigate nonprofit organizations over suspected possible links to domestic terrorism.

Brzozowski, the former counsel for domestic terrorism, said he could now see prosecutors further targeting civil disobedience with “riot or civil disorder charges.” He also suggested the feds’ next steps could include cases where people, such as protesters, “are charged with things like impeding federal officials. … Are they going to feel emboldened to start characterizing all those individuals in a charging document as Antifa or Antifa-aligned?”

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