Early one morning this June, Treasure Thoreson was drinking coffee on her couch in Minneapolis when she heard a knock at the front door. "'I go and I see a woman standing there in office clothes, but with a Homeland Security vest over the top. And I see six more agents standing in my front yard,'" Thoreson told NPR. "'She said, "We have a warrant for your arrest, for conspiracy."'"

Thoreson, a special education teacher who works with some of the most vulnerable students in the Minneapolis public school system, was still in her pajamas. The agent let her change clothes and hug her partner goodbye before taking her into custody. Her crime, according to the federal government: participating in blockades outside the Whipple Federal Building, which served as ICE's regional headquarters during the immigration enforcement surge that swept Minnesota last winter.

The government charged Thoreson and 14 other people with engaging in a conspiracy to impede federal agents — a charge carrying up to six years in federal prison. To prove its case, the government cited meetings and conversations on the encrypted messaging app Signal as evidence of a coordinated plot. At the advice of her lawyer, Thoreson declined to comment on the specifics of the indictment. But the message of her arrest was unmistakable: organizing against immigration enforcement had become a federal felony.

An Escalating Crackdown

Thoreson's case is not an anomaly. According to an NPR review of federal court records spanning the last five years, the DOJ has charged more than three dozen people in at least 10 cases under the conspiracy-to-impede statute since Trump returned to office in January 2025. Every single case involves people protesting federal immigration enforcement. An additional nearly 50 people have been indicted on conspiracy charges in Michigan, Texas, and Minnesota using other statutes.

The scale of the crackdown is unprecedented in modern American history. As we documented in our investigation into the shooting of protester Emma Landis at a GEO Group facility in Aurora, Colorado, the criminalization of immigration solidarity extends beyond federal prosecutors to the private contractors who now guard the nation's detention centers. The violence directed at protesters is not new — ICE agents have killed multiple people in detention encounters since Trump took office, including an innocent man in Houston and two people killed in a single week of enforcement actions that briefly halted federal policy. In Brooklyn, protesters at the Metropolitan Detention Center have responded with direct action under the banner "No More ICE Murders," while communities in Oregon have faced federal enforcement on their own Main Streets.

Before 2025, the same statute — 18 U.S.C. § 372, conspiracy to impede or injure an officer — was used almost exclusively to prosecute the January 6 insurrectionists. Members of the Proud Boys, the Oath Keepers, and other far-right militias who stormed the U.S. Capitol to overturn a democratic election were charged under this law. When Trump took office, he pardoned those people and began deploying the same statute against the people protesting his deportation machine.

The symmetry is not coincidental. It is the point. The Proud Boys tried to overturn an election. Treasure Thoreson tried to stop a deportation van. One group was pardoned. The other woke up to Homeland Security agents in her front yard.

The rise in conspiracy charges has alarmed legal experts who see the federal government stretching the bounds of criminal law to sweep up political activists who oppose the administration's agenda. Aaron Terr, director of public advocacy at the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, told NPR that "'These cases are part of a broader trend that's worth watching.'"

Terr stressed that each case differs. Some involve property destruction or even violence — a case in Texas, for instance, involved a protester shooting a local police officer, who survived. "'The government can legitimately prosecute people for that,'" Terr said. "'But some defendants aren't accused of personally engaging in that conduct. The concern there is that the government may be casting too wide a net. It may be lumping in innocent people or people who committed minor misdemeanors, based on their political beliefs.'"

ICE agents detaining a protester on the ground outside a federal building during a demonstration in Newark, New Jersey

The Spokane Case: What a Conviction Looks Like

The government's strategy found its fullest expression in Spokane, Washington, where the first major conspiracy trial of the ICE protest era resulted in convictions that sent shockwaves through solidarity networks across the country.

In June 2025, protesters gathered outside a building in Spokane where federal immigration officers were holding two immigrants. Some linked arms and tried to block a van from transporting the detainees to the Northwest ICE Processing Center in Tacoma, more than 280 miles away. Local police used pepper balls to disperse the crowd and arrested about 30 people.

The response from Washington was swift and deliberate. The day after the protest, the DOJ ordered U.S. attorneys around the country to prioritize prosecuting ICE protesters, according to an internal email seen by Reuters. A few months later, Attorney General Pam Bondi — whose 14-month tenure at the helm of the Justice Department has been marked by the systematic weaponization of prosecution — issued a formal memo directing prosecutors in select districts to charge those protesters "'with the highest provable offense available under the law.'"

In Spokane, the acting U.S. attorney, Richard Barker, initially asked his prosecutors to pursue conspiracy charges — but instead of signing the indictment, he resigned. His moral objection to using a Civil War-era law against peaceful protesters was, apparently, not shared by his superiors. Barker's successor signed the indictment. Nine people were charged with conspiracy.

Six defendants pleaded guilty — likely under the crushing pressure of facing six years in federal prison. But three chose to go to trial: Jac Archer, policy director at Spokane Community Against Racism; Bajun Mavalwalla II, a combat veteran who served in Afghanistan; and Justice Forral.

*"'At the end of the day, I fundamentally couldn't stomach admitting to doing something I know I didn't do.'"
— Jac Archer, policy director at Spokane Community Against Racism

During the eight-day trial in May 2026, prosecutors argued that the defendants had entered into an agreement the day of the protest to block the vehicle transporting detainees. Archer had posted a call on social media for others to join, saying some people were choosing to "'risk arrest to block the exits to ICE.'" The federal government cited that post in its indictment. Archer told NPR that any organizer who takes community safety seriously will alert people to that risk before things veer into civil disobedience territory — a standard practice at protests across the political spectrum.

*"'Being charged with a federal felony, a conspiracy charge that holds the potential for six years in prison because I showed up to a protest, seems to me to be an attack on a fundamental right that all Americans hold.'"
— Bajun Mavalwalla II, combat veteran and Spokane defendant

The government alleged that federal agents feared for their safety and that protesters damaged property, including slashing tires. Archer, Mavalwalla, and Forral were not accused of property damage in the indictment. They were accused of conspiracy — of agreeing to impede federal officers. The jury found all three guilty. They became known as the "Spokane Three." Each faces up to six years in prison.

*"'I question whether justice was truly served by today's verdict. It was a civil war-era law dusted off to punish members of our community who stood up for two young men who were unlawfully detained by ICE.'"
— Richard Barker, former acting U.S. attorney for the Eastern District of Washington

Barker's words carried unusual weight. He was the government's own prosecutor who walked away rather than sign the indictment. His successor signed it. His successor got the convictions. And the former prosecutor called the outcome an injustice.

Archer and Mavalwalla's lawyers are now exploring legal options, including asking the judge to throw out the verdict on the grounds that the evidence was insufficient to prove guilt. Mavalwalla's father, Bajun Mavalwalla Sr., told the Spokesman-Review after the verdict: "'They brought the swamp of Washington, D.C., into our area to stop American citizens from exercising our rights that are guaranteed. It was the whole point of the Constitution, the right to protest, the right to dissent, the right to assemble, all of those things are now in question because of this case.'"

"'This whole situation is not just beyond my expectations,'" Archer told NPR. "'It doesn't align with how I understood things to work.'"

The Broadview Six: When the Case Falls Apart

The government's conspiracy strategy has not gone unchallenged. In Broadview, Illinois, six protesters were indicted after a September 2025 demonstration outside an ICE facility. Video posted on social media showed a federal officer driving toward the group of protesters, with some blocking the vehicle. Prosecutors alleged that some protesters caused damage to the vehicle. Joselyn Walsh and Michael Rabbitt were among those charged — neither was accused of property damage. Both said they touched the car briefly as it drove into the crowd.

"'When you're in a crowd of people that a car drives into, you may end up making contact with that car. But it didn't stick in my mind,'" said Walsh, a local musician in Chicago.

"'They sought to make an example of us,'" said Rabbitt, a longtime political activist and the Democratic committeeperson for Chicago's 45th Ward.

The case against the "Broadview Six" collapsed in spectacular fashion. In May 2026, a federal judge dismissed all conspiracy charges after Chicago's top federal prosecutor admitted the case had been tainted by prosecutorial misconduct. A grand jury transcript revealed that prosecutors had improperly presented evidence to the grand jury. The dismissal was a rare rebuke of the DOJ's strategy — but it came only after months of legal battles, reputational destruction, and the immense psychological toll of facing federal felony charges.

Even with the dismissal, Walsh said the experience changed her. "'I think that what I've learned through this experience is just how much power the federal government really has over our lives and our liberty,'" she told NPR.

Protesters facing off with federal ICE agents outside a detention facility in Newark, New Jersey

The Weaponization of a Civil War Statute

The statute at the center of all these cases — 18 U.S.C. § 372, conspiracy to impede or injure an officer — dates back to the Reconstruction era. It was originally designed to protect federal agents from organized resistance by Confederate sympathizers and the Ku Klux Klan. For most of its history, it has been used sparingly.

That changed on January 6, 2021, when the statute became a primary tool for prosecuting the Capitol insurrectionists. That changed again on January 20, 2025, when Trump pardoned those insurrectionists and his DOJ began using the same law against people who opposed his immigration policies.

The legal mechanics of the statute are key to understanding why it is so effective as a weapon against dissent. Civil disobedience — sitting in a road, linking arms, blocking a vehicle — typically results in misdemeanor charges: trespassing, disorderly conduct, failure to disperse. These are minor offenses that carry minimal jail time and do not generally result in felony records.

Conspiracy to impede a federal officer under § 372 is different. It is a felony carrying up to six years in federal prison. To prove conspiracy, the government must show that two or more people agreed to commit a crime that would impede a federal officer through force, intimidation, or threat. The DOJ's innovation has been to take misdemeanor conduct — sitting in a road, linking arms, blocking a van — and reclassify it as a felony conspiracy by citing Signal group chats, meeting attendance, and social media posts as evidence of an "agreement."

*"'If someone shows up to a protest and they're prepared to engage in civil disobedience or they spontaneously decide, "I'm going to join this line of people who's blocking this detainee transport," I don't think that's enough to show a criminal conspiracy.'" — Aaron Terr, Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression

The DOJ disagrees. In a statement to NPR, the department said: "'People should not mistake violence against law enforcement or impeding officers performing their duties with peaceful protest.'" The statement is a deliberate conflation — equating nonviolent civil disobedience with violence, precisely the rhetorical move the conspiracy charge is designed to enable.

This is not about prosecuting violence. It is about criminalizing the planning and organizing that makes protest possible. The DOJ is using a law designed for Reconstruction-era paramilitaries to prosecute people who held hands in front of a deportation van, who posted on social media about attending a demonstration, who discussed logistics in a Signal group chat.

The Signal Question

The government's use of encrypted messaging app conversations as evidence of "conspiracy" deserves particular scrutiny. In Thoreson's case and others, the DOJ has cited Signal messages and group chats as proof that defendants agreed to impede federal agents. This has implications far beyond immigration protests — it suggests that any organized political activity that uses encrypted communications could potentially be construed as evidence of a criminal conspiracy.

Signal is used by journalists, activists, organizers, and ordinary citizens who want to protect their communications from surveillance. If participating in a Signal group chat about attending a protest can be cited as evidence of a felony conspiracy, the chilling effect extends to every form of digital organizing in the country.

Protester holding megaphone facing line of ICE agents outside federal building during demonstration

The Pattern and the Message

Since Trump took office in January 2025, the federal government has built an infrastructure for the mass criminalization of immigration solidarity:

More than three dozen people charged with conspiracy to impede under 18 U.S.C. § 372 across at least 10 cases — all involving ICE protests.

Nearly 50 additional people indicted on conspiracy charges in Michigan, Texas, and Minnesota under other statutes.

Attorney General Pam Bondi's formal memo directing prosecutors to charge protesters with "'the highest provable offense available under the law.'"

An internal DOJ email ordering U.S. attorneys nationwide to prioritize ICE protest prosecutions.

Early-morning arrests by Homeland Security agents at protesters' homes — as in Thoreson's case, where agents arrived while she was in her pajamas.

Signal messages entered as evidence of criminal conspiracy — establishing a precedent with implications for all digital organizing.

A federal prosecutor who resigned rather than sign a conspiracy indictment — and his successor who signed it and secured convictions.

The Broadview Six case collapsing due to prosecutorial misconduct — a sign that the DOJ is overreaching even by its own standards.

The pattern is clear, and it cascades through every solidarity network in the country. Protest ICE, get arrested. Get charged with conspiracy — a six-year felony — instead of misdemeanor trespassing. Face the choice: plead guilty or risk years in prison at trial. The DOJ uses every conviction to justify more charges. And with each new indictment, the message grows sharper: solidarity with immigrants is now a federal crime.

Katie Schwartzmann, legal counsel with Protect Democracy, told NPR that more indictments could be coming. "'It's important to see these indictments and the use of this law for what it is, which is an attempt to scare Americans. But also, Americans should not be afraid to organize peaceful resistance in this moment. Those acts of ordinary people organizing and working together have been the most important force for justice in the history of our country.'"

The conspiracy charge is not a response to crime. It is a tool for eliminating dissent. And with every conviction, every guilty plea extracted under the pressure of federal prison, and every protester led away in handcuffs, the tool grows sharper. The Spokane Three join a growing roster of political prisoners: protesters convicted of terrorism in the Prairieland case simply for what they wore to a demonstration; the broad daylight shooting of protesters by ICE agents, the murder of civillians on the streets, fabricating assault charges to justify lethal force; and the repression extends beyond the courtroom. The same Justice Department that charges protesters with felony conspiracy has also gone after humanitarian aid workers — most notably Fergie Chambers, arrested for providing support to migrants in what the government reframes as "terrorism financing." The surveillance infrastructure that enabled these prosecutions was expanded earlier this year when Congress temporarily renewed Section 702, giving federal agencies continued warrantless access to the communications of activists, journalists, and organizers.

The same statute that was used against the Proud Boys — before Trump pardoned them — is now being deployed against anti-ICE protesters, community organizers, musicians, veterans, and special education teachers. One group was pardoned. The other is facing federal prison.

This is not equal application of the law. It is the law being weaponized to protect state violence and criminalize those who resist it. The question is not whether the pattern will continue — it will. The question is whether anyone will stop it. The same administration that charges protesters with felony conspiracy for blocking a deportation van has also admitted, in federal court, to canceling billions of dollars in federal grants to punish states that voted against Trump. The threads are inseparable: criminalize the protesters, starve the states that defend them, and privatize the violence so no one can be held accountable. Over 330 cities have declared themselves "ICE Out" zones in defiance of the federal crackdown. At the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn, at Delaney Hall in Newark — where a week of clashes and a hunger strike by detainees exposed the machinery of detention — and on Main Streets across the country, people are refusing to back down. The conspiracy charge is meant to terrify them into silence. It is not working.