Week 26: Data and Force as Governance

In a week without a single shock, immigration raids, civil service purges, and curated secrecy deepened a regime of control over bodies, data, and memory.

The twenty-sixth week of Trump’s second term did not hinge on a single shock. It unfolded instead as a week in which the tools of government were tuned a little finer to the needs of those in power. Immigration raids, staffing orders, budget cuts, and court rulings arrived as separate stories. Together, they described a state that was learning how to use its reach—over bodies, data, money, and memory—with greater confidence and less restraint.

At the close of Week 25, the Democracy Clock stood at 8:06 p.m. It ended Week 26 at the same time, with no net change in minutes. The stillness in the measure did not reflect calm. It marked a week in which the direction of movement was already set, and the work was to deepen and extend existing lines. Executive power pressed further into the civil service and the courts. Immigration enforcement hardened into a standing emergency. Public goods were thinned out while private and partisan channels thickened. Resistance appeared—in courts, in legislatures, in the streets—but as friction, not reversal.

The most visible edge of this week’s story lay in the fields and streets where immigration law was enforced. At licensed cannabis farms, ICE and local officers arrived with less-lethal munitions and tear gas, turning a workplace raid into a scene of violence that left workers injured and one dead. The president had already authorized agents to use “whatever means” they deemed necessary for self-protection and ordered the arrest of protesters who tried to impede operations. What might once have been framed as a last resort was now written into the standing posture of the state.

Behind these scenes of force, the legal ground shifted. A new policy ended bond hearings for many undocumented immigrants, moving decisions about release from judges to the Department of Homeland Security. Rapid deportation rules shortened notice and narrowed the window for legal challenge. ICE expanded its officers and detention facilities, while Title 42 and related measures continued to be used to turn back asylum seekers. The architecture of emergency—fast, opaque, and harsh—was being made permanent, not as a declared state of exception but as the normal way the system worked.

Data became a second line of control. The IRS and ICE developed a system to share confidential tax records, including addresses, for deportation targeting. Medicaid and other health data on tens of millions of people were slated for similar use. Information once collected for civic purposes—paying taxes, seeking medical care—was repurposed as a tool of surveillance and removal. The message to mixed-status families and vulnerable communities was clear. Every form filled out could become a lead for enforcement.

Individual cases gave this structure a human face. Agents arrested an Iranian chiropractor at his child’s preschool, breaking a car window in front of children. An Irish tourist who overstayed a visa by three days was held for about a hundred days in criminal facilities. Deportations were planned to third countries such as Eswatini, where those removed had no ties and little assurance of safety. At the “Alligator Alcatraz” detention site in Florida, more than 250 non-criminal detainees were held in overcrowded, unsanitary conditions. Each story was an outlier in its details and typical in its logic. The burden of error and excess fell on those with the least power to contest it.

By the end of the week, masked, often unidentifiable agents were conducting mass deportation raids across communities, staging operations from Terminal Island, a site already marked in American memory by Japanese American incarceration. Protesters who interfered with ICE operations faced arrest. The line between law enforcement and paramilitary presence blurred. Courts did push back at the margins—a Los Angeles judge temporarily blocked raids based on racial profiling; federal judges protected some refugees and TPS holders; advocates filed class actions against courthouse arrests—but these were narrow rulings in a system whose default settings had shifted toward speed and severity.

While immigration enforcement hardened on the ground, the administration worked to reshape who controlled the levers inside the state. The centerpiece was an executive order creating Schedule G, a new category of excepted service for policy roles. Under Schedule G, thousands of positions that had been shielded by civil service protections could be filled and removed at presidential discretion. What had been a professional bureaucracy, with some insulation from politics, was opened to rapid turnover based on loyalty.

The effects of that shift appeared across agencies. At the Department of Education, the Supreme Court granted a stay that allowed the administration to proceed with large-scale layoffs, despite lower-court findings and congressional funding for more positions. At the State Department, more than 1,300 staff were cut and the Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor was closed, removing a key institutional voice for rights in foreign policy. At the National Institutes of Health, leadership moved to replace advisory panel scientists with politically aligned appointees, threatening the independence of scientific advice.

The Department of Justice became a focal point of this politicization. Attorney General Pam Bondi fired the department’s senior ethics attorney, Joseph Tirrell, along with more than twenty other employees. Maurene Comey, a federal prosecutor who had worked on the Epstein case and other sensitive matters, was abruptly dismissed. In parallel, the administration bypassed a judicial panel that had rejected John Sarcone III as interim U.S. attorney by appointing him instead as “special attorney to the attorney general,” granting him full U.S. attorney powers without Senate confirmation. These moves did not abolish oversight on paper. They changed who would exercise it, and on whose behalf.

Even agencies charged with logistics and internal management were drawn into this pattern. The General Services Administration rescinded forty-one Federal Management Regulation bulletins, trimming guidance for how federal assets and fleets were handled. At FEMA, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem required her personal approval for expenditures and contracts over $100,000 and allowed call-center contracts to lapse during Texas floods, sharply reducing answered calls. The formal mission of disaster response remained. The capacity and discretion to carry it out were pulled closer to a single political office.

The same logic of control and protection shaped how the government handled the Epstein scandal. Early in the week, DOJ and the FBI announced that they would not release further Epstein information and insisted that no incriminating client list existed. A formal memo concluded that Epstein had died by suicide and declined to provide more data. The attorney general and FBI director framed the matter as closed. The president, for his part, dismissed questions about the memo as unimportant in a cabinet meeting and urged the FBI to focus instead on voter fraud and corruption, redirecting investigative attention toward narratives more useful to him.

Yet the evidence record itself raised doubts. DOJ released what it called “full raw” surveillance video from Epstein’s cell, only for reporters to find nearly three minutes missing. The firing of Maurene Comey, whose work had touched Epstein and other high-profile cases, added to the sense that those who probed too close to elite networks faced consequences. In Congress, House Rules Committee Republicans used procedural control to block Democratic amendments that would have forced release of Epstein files, even as Speaker Mike Johnson later called publicly for transparency. The gap between rhetoric and votes underscored how information politics could be staged.

Outside government, pressure built. Representatives Marc Veasey and Ro Khanna announced plans for a resolution and amendment demanding release of Epstein records. Senator Ron Wyden pressed DOJ for banking records tied to Epstein’s financial network. Senator Dick Durbin sought details on claims that 1,000 agents had been assigned to the case. Investigative outlets documented how the administration’s selective disclosures and messaging were managing fallout rather than fully informing the public, while high-profile figures on social media amplified criticism of the president over the unreleased files.

By week’s end, DOJ moved to unseal redacted grand jury transcripts, and the president ordered Bondi to release Epstein grand jury testimony. On paper, these were steps toward openness. In context, they looked more like tactical concessions under pressure, coming after weeks of secrecy, retaliatory firings, and missing footage. The president’s own online posts, calling the backlash a “hoax” and attacking former supporters, added a layer of chaos that made it harder to distinguish genuine transparency from narrative management. The net effect was to deepen public suspicion that crimes by elite donors and allies could be curated out of reach.

While scandal management played out in Washington, the ground rules of representation were being rewritten in the states and courts. In Florida, the state supreme court upheld a congressional map that dismantled a Black-influence district and reduced Black voters’ power. At the federal level, rulings against affirmative action and related doctrines shifted legal baselines away from race-conscious remedies. These decisions did not bar minority participation outright. They narrowed the tools available to ensure that participation translated into influence.

At the same time, partisan actors moved to shape maps more directly. The president publicly called for a mid-decade redrawing of Texas congressional districts to gain Republican seats, inserting the White House into what had once been a state-level process. In Texas and California, competing plans for redistricting showed both parties seeking structural advantage, though the federal government’s weight fell on the side of the president’s allies. In Texas, Attorney General Ken Paxton threatened to arrest Democratic legislators who boycotted a redistricting special session, turning a traditional minority tactic—denying quorum—into grounds for criminal sanction.

Administrative rules provided a quieter path to the same end. In North Carolina, the state board of elections voted to require additional registration data that risked moving about 100,000 voters to provisional status, effectively suppressing participation under the guise of list maintenance. The Election Assistance Commission, by contrast, announced a public meeting on updated voting system guidelines, a small but real act of transparent stewardship. Outside the institutions, more than 1,500 “Good Trouble Lives On” demonstrations invoked John Lewis’s legacy to rally citizens around voting rights. The struggle over who counts, and how, was being waged in courtrooms, committee rooms, and streets at once.

Beneath these political fights, the economic and informational chassis of democracy was being altered. A reconciliation bill removed support for renewable energy and the Low Income Home Energy Assistance Program, raising projected power costs and deepening energy insecurity for poorer households. The administration cut $4 billion in federal funding for California’s high-speed rail project, weakening long-term climate-friendly infrastructure and signaling partisan use of federal funds against a disfavored state. Tariffs of 30 percent on goods from the European Union and Mexico, and a 17 percent tariff on Mexican tomatoes, shifted costs onto consumers while advantaging certain domestic producers.

Congress and the White House then moved together on a $9.4 billion rescissions package. The bill retroactively endorsed unilateral spending cuts, slashed foreign aid, and defunded PBS and NPR. Combined with the dismantling of the U.S. Agency for Global Media, these cuts hollowed out public broadcasting and international news efforts, pushing information ecosystems toward private and partisan outlets. At home, the Department of Housing and Urban Development prepared to terminate seven major housing discrimination and segregation investigations, while the IRS moved to end its Direct File free tax-filing tool after meetings with tax software lobbyists. Enforcement against systemic discrimination and a public option for filing taxes both gave way to industry preferences.

Data, too, was thinned. The administration cut resources at the Bureau of Labor Statistics, increasing reliance on imputed prices in inflation reports. NOAA halted work on an extreme rainfall prediction tool, reducing the government’s capacity to anticipate climate-driven disasters. NASA decided not to publish major climate change assessments on its website. These choices did not erase facts. They made them harder to see, and easier to spin. When official statistics and scientific reports lose clarity, both citizens and policymakers are left to navigate by narratives rather than evidence.

At the same time, the boundary between public office and private gain grew more porous. The administration lifted export controls on advanced chips and design tools for China, allowing U.S. firms to resume lucrative sales even as it threatened sweeping secondary sanctions on countries trading with Russia. The Trump Organization announced Trump Tower Bucharest and lifted its self-imposed ban on foreign deals, reopening channels through which foreign governments and firms could seek favor via the president’s businesses. Large settlements from media lawsuits, worth up to $63 million, were directed to fund Trump’s presidential library, blurring lines between defamation litigation, political power, and the financing of a presidential institution. Wealth did not just buy speech; it bought law and legacy.

The information space that might have checked these moves was itself under pressure. Defunding PBS and NPR, suing members of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting’s board, and dismantling USAGM all weakened independent public media. The Federal Election Commission canceled open meetings, reducing public oversight of campaign finance enforcement. NASA’s withheld climate assessments and the BLS data cuts were part of a broader pattern in which inconvenient knowledge was delayed, downplayed, or kept off official platforms. A composite picture emerged: fewer noncommercial voices, less accessible science, and more room for those in power to define reality.

Private media and platforms did not stand outside this struggle. CBS announced the cancellation of “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert,” removing a prominent venue for political satire. In Congress, a Republican representative proposed ending the House’s subscription contract with The Wall Street Journal after critical reporting, signaling a willingness to use legislative levers to punish disfavored outlets. The president used his own platform to post unsubstantiated allegations of mortgage fraud against Senator Adam Schiff amid tariff-driven inflation, diverting attention from policy impacts toward personal attack. Investigative journalists who probed elite misconduct, including around Epstein, found themselves facing smears and, in some cases, legal threats.

Within the justice system, the pattern of selective enforcement became clearer. DOJ dropped charges mid-trial against Dr. Michael Kirk Moore, accused of destroying Covid vaccines and issuing fake cards, weakening deterrence against undermining public health programs. In the Breonna Taylor civil rights case, the department requested a one-day sentence for former officer Brett Hankison, raising doubts about federal commitment to police accountability. At the same time, DOJ narrowed but continued a bribery prosecution against Representative Henry Cuellar, showing that corruption cases could proceed when they fit within the administration’s priorities.

Civil rights enforcement moved in the opposite direction. DOJ canceled a Biden-era settlement that had required Alabama to address the Lowndes County sewage crisis, removing federal pressure to remedy environmental injustice in a poor, largely Black community. English-only guidance at DOJ limited multilingual services, making it harder for non-English speakers to navigate legal processes and assert rights. The Office of Congressional Ethics found substantial evidence of ethical violations by former Congressman Alex Mooney, yet the House Ethics Committee left the matter unresolved before he left office. Formal structures remained, but their ability to impose consequences on elites was thin.

Not all uses of law followed this pattern. Federal courts blocked a refugee ban, protected Afghans’ Temporary Protected Status, and granted a temporary restraining order in an ICE detention case. Environmental groups and states sued over FEMA resilience grant cuts and the Alligator Alcatraz facility, combining ecological and civil liberties arguments. Baltimore invested in community-based violence reduction programs and data-driven mediation, showing how law and policy could be used to strengthen safety without expanding coercive force. These examples did not outweigh the broader trend, but they showed that alternative models of governance still existed.

Civil society and some institutions pushed back against the new order, even as intimidation grew. Lawmakers who toured the Alligator Alcatraz facility reported overcrowded cages and poor sanitation, prompting public outrage. When Florida Democrats were denied access to the site, they sued to enforce their inspection rights. Environmental groups filed their own suit to halt the facility’s operation. Nationwide, “Good Trouble Lives On” demonstrations honored John Lewis and mobilized citizens around voting rights and justice. Indivisible organized online training sessions to build local organizing capacity.

Inside the security apparatus, cracks appeared. DHS agents testified in court about unusual orders to arrest pro-Palestinian students and academics, saying they had questioned the legality of directives that targeted specific political groups. In Texas, officials and residents involved in flood response faced death threats, a sign of how public service itself was becoming more dangerous. On Capitol Hill, repeated hearings on antisemitism in higher education placed intense pressure on universities to police speech, with the implicit threat of funding consequences. The same week, Congress passed routine legislation on technical corrections, fentanyl control, and innovation, a reminder that ordinary lawmaking continued alongside more corrosive uses of power.

Across these domains, the moral floor continued to sag. Character, in the sense of aligning words with public duty, was strained by mass layoffs at the State Department and the closure of a human rights bureau. Ethics blurred as immigration enforcement and the handling of Epstein intersected with private interests and political protection. Restraint gave way to maximal use of executive authority in immigration, trade, and personnel. Truthfulness eroded under disinformation about opponents and curated archives. Good faith in procedure weakened as legislatures blocked transparency amendments while staging oversight theater. Stewardship suffered as oversight mechanisms were dismantled and agencies were bent toward partisan ends.

Yet the Democracy Clock did not move this week because the direction of travel was already established. Week 26 was less a turn than a deepening. The executive branch extended its reach over who serves, who is watched, and what the public is allowed to know. Courts, legislatures, and civil society registered objections, sometimes forcefully, but mostly after damage had been done. The balance between power and accountability shifted further, not through a single rupture, but through many small, coordinated acts that made the extraordinary feel routine.