Gov. Sherrill Urges New Jerseyans to Spy on ICE—Taxpayers Foot the Bill?

Paul Riverbank, 1/30/2026Governor Sherrill urges New Jerseyans to film ICE, stirring debate over transparency, cost, and civil rights.

Her announcement, which spun across the airwaves and ricocheted through living rooms statewide, introduced what she described as a new portal. State-run, accessible to everyone with a smartphone, it invites locals to upload footage, photos—evidence, in her words—of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in action. “If you see an ICE agent in the street, get your phone out,” she urged, the sort of directness not typically favored by politicians in their first 10 days. The underlying message: ordinary residents could now play a role in what the administration casts as oversight.

Supporters called it transparency. Critics dismissed it as theater or worse, but both camps immediately began squabbling over details. Notably absent: any mention of how the state would pay for such a digital warehouse of evidence, or how much it might cost New Jersey taxpayers already feeling the pinch elsewhere.

From Sherrill’s vantage, her military experience looms large—she often references deployments overseas, observing societies controlled by secretive police. In one notable interview, describing ICE’s anonymized, unmarked presence, she invoked those memories: “We saw people in the street with masks and no insignia, so not accountable at all, hiding from the population.” It’s a bracing comparison: American federal agents likened, albeit obliquely, to shadowy enforcers in troubled states. Unsurprisingly, it grabbed headlines.

But Sherrill’s sense of alarm isn’t conjured from thin air. National debate simmered after back-to-back fatalities involving federal agents—one in Minneapolis, where an ICE agent shot Renee Good, a mother of three; another involving ICU nurse Alex Pretti, who died at the hands of Border Patrol. Both incidents, widely circulated via cellphone footage, inflamed public sentiment and left the governor determined to prevent such events from slipping under the radar in her state.

Still, even groups fighting for immigrant rights—those whom one might imagine cheering any scrutiny of ICE—reacted with mixed feelings. Amy Torres from the New Jersey Alliance for Immigrant Justice didn’t mince words: “We don’t need to see more evidence of what ICE is doing. New Jersey doesn’t need more evidence, we need leadership who is going to act.” For them, documentation is less urgent than concrete policy changes, and frustration mounts as bold legislative proposals stall.

Indeed, the state’s so-called sanctuary policy—the “Immigrant Trust Directive”—already keeps local police at arm’s length from federal enforcers. Sherrill wants to anchor those guidelines in statute, not just executive order, making them harder to unwind should her successors disagree. But she’s wary of swinging wider. Her campaign cautioned against tweaks that could prompt lawsuits or—worse, in some eyes—put the entire policy at risk in court.

To immigrant advocates, this sounds like reticence masquerading as prudence. Amol Sinha at the ACLU of New Jersey, for example, argues the legal risks are not a reason for paralysis. “There’s legal risk to every law that passes in New Jersey. You’re going to get sued, and if you don’t want to get sued then you shouldn’t be in government,” he said, a jab at the idea that safety comes in inaction.

These debates land at a moment when Washington’s immigration powers are being flexed in new and unpredictable ways. Nearly half a million New Jersey residents lack legal status; they are acutely aware, every day, that federal rules—and their enforcement—can change on a tweet or a press release. The Trump administration, for its part, relishes the fight. Tom Homan, the so-called “border czar,” has gone so far as to threaten legal action against those who would, as he puts it, “coordinate attacks on ICE agents.” And while no one in Trenton wants to lose crucial federal funds, neither do they want to fold under pressure.

Careful voices in the state legislature point out the obvious tension: governors come and go, but executive orders—no matter how right-minded—can vanish overnight. “Our executive can be put under a tremendous amount of pressure where they have to figure out how they’re going to fund our social services systems that rely on federal funding,” Balvir Singh, a Democratic Assemblymember, observed—echoing a worry heard in many statehouses.

Meanwhile, Governor Sherrill isn’t shying from confrontation. “This is a time when I think we’re going to see a large expansion of state power, because the states are the rational actors in this space,” she told one interviewer, signaling a readiness to stand her ground even if the cost is yet unknown. Beyond the new portal, she’s backing moves to keep ICE off any state-owned property—a shot across the bow, subtle but unmistakable.

And yet, amid all the policy duels and legal threat assessments, it’s easy to overlook what’s at stake for real people. Nedia Morsy of Make the Road New Jersey put it bluntly: “A collective feeling of suffocation.” To many, what’s unfolding is not just a tug-of-war over paperwork and platforms, but a basic fight—for dignity, for autonomy, for the right to shape one’s own place in a state that, whatever its politics, is home.

Will Sherrill’s portal be a blueprint for authentic oversight, or does it amount to political window-dressing, an opening gambit with little staying power? The answers, for now, remain hazy. Much depends on the next set of decisions from her administration and the degree to which New Jersey’s new governor is prepared to let boldness eclipse caution—at least, when the moment seems to demand it.

When Mikie Sherrill took office as New Jersey’s governor, she wasted little time courting controversy. Just over a week into her inaugural term—a tenure historic in itself, given her background as a Navy pilot and the first female veteran to hold the office—Sherrill stood before a wall of TV cameras and called on her constituents to do something none had quite expected: take out their phones if they see federal immigration agents at work, and record.Her announcement, which spun across the airwaves and ricocheted through living rooms statewide, introduced what she described as a new portal. State-run, accessible to everyone with a smartphone, it invites locals to upload footage, photos—evidence, in her words—of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in action. “If you see an ICE agent in the street, get your phone out,” she urged, the sort of directness not typically favored by politicians in their first 10 days. The underlying message: ordinary residents could now play a role in what the administration casts as oversight.Supporters called it transparency. Critics dismissed it as theater or worse, but both camps immediately began squabbling over details. Notably absent: any mention of how the state would pay for such a digital warehouse of evidence, or how much it might cost New Jersey taxpayers already feeling the pinch elsewhere.From Sherrill’s vantage, her military experience looms large—she often references deployments overseas, observing societies controlled by secretive police. In one notable interview, describing ICE’s anonymized, unmarked presence, she invoked those memories: “We saw people in the street with masks and no insignia, so not accountable at all, hiding from the population.” It’s a bracing comparison: American federal agents likened, albeit obliquely, to shadowy enforcers in troubled states. Unsurprisingly, it grabbed headlines.But Sherrill’s sense of alarm isn’t conjured from thin air. National debate simmered after back-to-back fatalities involving federal agents—one in Minneapolis, where an ICE agent shot Renee Good, a mother of three; another involving ICU nurse Alex Pretti, who died at the hands of Border Patrol. Both incidents, widely circulated via cellphone footage, inflamed public sentiment and left the governor determined to prevent such events from slipping under the radar in her state.Still, even groups fighting for immigrant rights—those whom one might imagine cheering any scrutiny of ICE—reacted with mixed feelings. Amy Torres from the New Jersey Alliance for Immigrant Justice didn’t mince words: “We don’t need to see more evidence of what ICE is doing. New Jersey doesn’t need more evidence, we need leadership who is going to act.” For them, documentation is less urgent than concrete policy changes, and frustration mounts as bold legislative proposals stall.Indeed, the state’s so-called sanctuary policy—the “Immigrant Trust Directive”—already keeps local police at arm’s length from federal enforcers. Sherrill wants to anchor those guidelines in statute, not just executive order, making them harder to unwind should her successors disagree. But she’s wary of swinging wider. Her campaign cautioned against tweaks that could prompt lawsuits or—worse, in some eyes—put the entire policy at risk in court.To immigrant advocates, this sounds like reticence masquerading as prudence. Amol Sinha at the ACLU of New Jersey, for example, argues the legal risks are not a reason for paralysis. “There’s legal risk to every law that passes in New Jersey. You’re going to get sued, and if you don’t want to get sued then you shouldn’t be in government,” he said, a jab at the idea that safety comes in inaction.These debates land at a moment when Washington’s immigration powers are being flexed in new and unpredictable ways. Nearly half a million New Jersey residents lack legal status; they are acutely aware, every day, that federal rules—and their enforcement—can change on a tweet or a press release. The Trump administration, for its part, relishes the fight. Tom Homan, the so-called “border czar,” has gone so far as to threaten legal action against those who would, as he puts it, “coordinate attacks on ICE agents.” And while no one in Trenton wants to lose crucial federal funds, neither do they want to fold under pressure.Careful voices in the state legislature point out the obvious tension: governors come and go, but executive orders—no matter how right-minded—can vanish overnight. “Our executive can be put under a tremendous amount of pressure where they have to figure out how they’re going to fund our social services systems that rely on federal funding,” Balvir Singh, a Democratic Assemblymember, observed—echoing a worry heard in many statehouses.Meanwhile, Governor Sherrill isn’t shying from confrontation. “This is a time when I think we’re going to see a large expansion of state power, because the states are the rational actors in this space,” she told one interviewer, signaling a readiness to stand her ground even if the cost is yet unknown. Beyond the new portal, she’s backing moves to keep ICE off any state-owned property—a shot across the bow, subtle but unmistakable.And yet, amid all the policy duels and legal threat assessments, it’s easy to overlook what’s at stake for real people. Nedia Morsy of Make the Road New Jersey put it bluntly: “A collective feeling of suffocation.” To many, what’s unfolding is not just a tug-of-war over paperwork and platforms, but a basic fight—for dignity, for autonomy, for the right to shape one’s own place in a state that, whatever its politics, is home.Will Sherrill’s portal be a blueprint for authentic oversight, or does it amount to political window-dressing, an opening gambit with little staying power? The answers, for now, remain hazy. Much depends on the next set of decisions from her administration and the degree to which New Jersey’s new governor is prepared to let boldness eclipse caution—at least, when the moment seems to demand it.