Conservative Reporter Robbed, Dragged Through Minneapolis Streets Amid Chaos

Paul Riverbank, 1/19/2026Reporter robbed, dragged in Minneapolis; incident exposes deep divisions over press presence and safety.

Sortor, who’s recently become something of a fixture at protests around the city, was stationed in his car in Cedar Riverside. He’d picked the spot to catch the energy of the neighborhood on film, camera in hand—far from expecting what would happen next. That’s the thing about on-the-ground reporting: it can turn unpredictable, and fast. In a blink, a woman approached the open window and snatched his camera, a pricey piece of equipment he relies on for his work. The rush of confusion in the car was palpable. “What did she just do?” came a startled voice from inside—Sortor’s crew was as bewildered as he was.

Instinct kicked in. Sortor was out of the vehicle and in pursuit, boots skidding over patches of ice as he chased her down the street. The chase didn’t last long, but it was enough to ratchet up the tension. He managed to catch up, just as the woman jumped inside another car. Sortor grabbed for the door handle, but with no time to react, the car lurched forward, dragging him several feet across the frozen pavement before he let go. He’d later describe the incident, still shaken, as his hand having become “trapped” during the ordeal—gritty detail sometimes overlooked in the retelling, but not by those who live it.

By the time Sortor made it back to his feet, the crowd had shifted. Instead of mere bystanders, a small group had formed—eight or so, most strangers to each other, united in that moment by what was unfolding. What struck Sortor wasn’t only the theft, but the reaction around him. “No one stepped in,” he recounted with a hint of disbelief. The crowd seemed less concerned about the altercation, more focused on telling him and his crew to leave. At one point, Sortor’s cameraman pleaded for some support: “Just tell her to give him the camera back!” That plea was lost in the rising tension. A voice in the crowd—agitated, insistent—yelled that the reporters should get out, echoing a sentiment Sortor would hear repeatedly: outsiders aren’t welcome.

It wasn’t just the camera. It was the sense that their right to be there, to report, was under challenge—a feeling as biting as the cold. For Sortor and his assistant, the unwelcome stares didn’t end after the altercation. They sensed the group lingering, keeping their distance but making their presence known—honking as they followed, trailing the crew for blocks. “You don’t belong in Minnesota,” someone told them bluntly.

If that sounds familiar, it’s because Minneapolis has found itself at the crux of national debates lately—over ICE, over federal presence, over who gets to control the narrative when protests break out. Just days before, Sortor had captured footage of a man reportedly lifting a rifle from a government vehicle amid anti-ICE protests, a sequence that ended with the suspect’s arrest. That kind of work—raw, risky, and often polarizing—underscores the hazards that independent journalists shoulder.

In classic internet fashion, news of the robbery pinged across social media within hours. Attorney Mike Davis stepped up almost immediately, promising to help with a replacement camera. The FBI’s rapid response group, characteristically terse but efficient, acknowledged they were on the case. For better or worse, these escalations now play out in real time online.

What’s at stake here is more than property, though. Some Minneapolis residents worry that the presence of conservative or outsider reporters stirs up trouble or misrepresents their community. Others see it differently: a matter of free speech and open access, particularly in a city still grappling with its own scars from recent unrest. One of Sortor’s team put it simply: “It’s the United States of America.” The right to document public spaces remains fundamental, even—perhaps especially—when opinions clash.

Mayor Jacob Frey, whose leadership has come under close scrutiny during these turbulent months, now faces renewed questions—about both security on the streets and the city’s broader ability to balance order with democratic rights. Critics argue the administration's response has been uneven, leaving some to wonder whether city hall has the situation under control.

The bigger picture here isn’t just about a stolen camera or a bruised journalist. It’s about the uneasy lines drawn between residents and reporters, and what happens when those lines are tested by distrust, fear, or even just a bad day. Whether Minneapolis can forge a path back to civility, where public safety and freedom of the press coexist, remains to be seen. For now, footage from Cedar Riverside—and the fallout it sparked—serves as a stark reminder: In cities wrestling with division, every incident becomes a referendum on who belongs, who decides, and who gets to tell the story.

Snow crusted the sidewalks of Minneapolis last Sunday, where the cold seemed to linger far longer than anyone would have liked. It was shaping up to be an unremarkable afternoon—until Nick Sortor, an independent journalist with a knack for finding himself at the center of controversy, had an encounter that rapidly spiraled out of control.Sortor, who’s recently become something of a fixture at protests around the city, was stationed in his car in Cedar Riverside. He’d picked the spot to catch the energy of the neighborhood on film, camera in hand—far from expecting what would happen next. That’s the thing about on-the-ground reporting: it can turn unpredictable, and fast. In a blink, a woman approached the open window and snatched his camera, a pricey piece of equipment he relies on for his work. The rush of confusion in the car was palpable. “What did she just do?” came a startled voice from inside—Sortor’s crew was as bewildered as he was.Instinct kicked in. Sortor was out of the vehicle and in pursuit, boots skidding over patches of ice as he chased her down the street. The chase didn’t last long, but it was enough to ratchet up the tension. He managed to catch up, just as the woman jumped inside another car. Sortor grabbed for the door handle, but with no time to react, the car lurched forward, dragging him several feet across the frozen pavement before he let go. He’d later describe the incident, still shaken, as his hand having become “trapped” during the ordeal—gritty detail sometimes overlooked in the retelling, but not by those who live it.By the time Sortor made it back to his feet, the crowd had shifted. Instead of mere bystanders, a small group had formed—eight or so, most strangers to each other, united in that moment by what was unfolding. What struck Sortor wasn’t only the theft, but the reaction around him. “No one stepped in,” he recounted with a hint of disbelief. The crowd seemed less concerned about the altercation, more focused on telling him and his crew to leave. At one point, Sortor’s cameraman pleaded for some support: “Just tell her to give him the camera back!” That plea was lost in the rising tension. A voice in the crowd—agitated, insistent—yelled that the reporters should get out, echoing a sentiment Sortor would hear repeatedly: outsiders aren’t welcome.It wasn’t just the camera. It was the sense that their right to be there, to report, was under challenge—a feeling as biting as the cold. For Sortor and his assistant, the unwelcome stares didn’t end after the altercation. They sensed the group lingering, keeping their distance but making their presence known—honking as they followed, trailing the crew for blocks. “You don’t belong in Minnesota,” someone told them bluntly.If that sounds familiar, it’s because Minneapolis has found itself at the crux of national debates lately—over ICE, over federal presence, over who gets to control the narrative when protests break out. Just days before, Sortor had captured footage of a man reportedly lifting a rifle from a government vehicle amid anti-ICE protests, a sequence that ended with the suspect’s arrest. That kind of work—raw, risky, and often polarizing—underscores the hazards that independent journalists shoulder.In classic internet fashion, news of the robbery pinged across social media within hours. Attorney Mike Davis stepped up almost immediately, promising to help with a replacement camera. The FBI’s rapid response group, characteristically terse but efficient, acknowledged they were on the case. For better or worse, these escalations now play out in real time online.What’s at stake here is more than property, though. Some Minneapolis residents worry that the presence of conservative or outsider reporters stirs up trouble or misrepresents their community. Others see it differently: a matter of free speech and open access, particularly in a city still grappling with its own scars from recent unrest. One of Sortor’s team put it simply: “It’s the United States of America.” The right to document public spaces remains fundamental, even—perhaps especially—when opinions clash.Mayor Jacob Frey, whose leadership has come under close scrutiny during these turbulent months, now faces renewed questions—about both security on the streets and the city’s broader ability to balance order with democratic rights. Critics argue the administration's response has been uneven, leaving some to wonder whether city hall has the situation under control.The bigger picture here isn’t just about a stolen camera or a bruised journalist. It’s about the uneasy lines drawn between residents and reporters, and what happens when those lines are tested by distrust, fear, or even just a bad day. Whether Minneapolis can forge a path back to civility, where public safety and freedom of the press coexist, remains to be seen. For now, footage from Cedar Riverside—and the fallout it sparked—serves as a stark reminder: In cities wrestling with division, every incident becomes a referendum on who belongs, who decides, and who gets to tell the story.