Jail Deaths and Tax Revolt: Tarrant County Faces a Political Storm

Paul Riverbank, 2/4/2026Tarrant County faces a pivotal choice: transparency and reform championed by Trevor Buker or the incumbent’s status quo. As debates rage locally and nationally over who shapes public voices and policy, voters are left to decide whose leadership—and whose speech—matters most.

Buker doesn’t put on airs. He’s spent more hours than he’d care to count watching court sessions from the uncomfortable benches of the county courthouse, watching, listening, and, he claims, witnessing missteps that cut to the bone of constitutional rights. “I’m running again because I’ve seen all the constitutional violations people keep ignoring,” Buker said, not mincing words in an interview with Townhall. Recent lawsuits alleging First Amendment breaches leveled at O’Hare have only given wind to Buker’s sails. “You can’t call yourself a conservative while trampling the Constitution—it just doesn’t hold up,” he observes, frustration barely contained.

Taxes are never just numbers on a line or empty campaign promises; they’re the daily anxiety of homeowners across Tarrant County. O’Hare likes to trumpet his cuts—three years running, $58 million sheared from the budget. On the surface, a neat achievement. Go beneath the numbers, however, and Buker is skeptical. “You’ll never see real relief until the Tarrant Appraisal District’s rates are tackled,” he warns. Homeowners confirm as much: their property tax bills keep rising, dwarfed by the relentless march of appraisals. Those budgetary wins politicians like to tout? They get lost, Buker says, “swallowed up” by soaring values almost faster than they’re announced.

The tax fairness argument goes further. Buker highlights something that rarely winds up on a press release—corporate tax arrangements doled out like golden tickets. He singles out heavyweights like Amazon, who, according to him, might get a decade-long reprieve from property taxes while residents pick up the slack. “If the big players keep cashing in on these deals, the little guy—the homeowner—just keeps losing ground,” Buker asserts.

Buker’s reform wishlist reads like a rebuke to bureaucracy. He’s pressing to trim or eliminate ad valorem taxes, those much-maligned charges tacked onto everything from backyard sheds to modest swimming pools. He talks about shaking up court procedures too, proposing citizens be allowed to handle court sign-ups in person. “More openness, less intimidation,” he summarizes, convinced the system is overdue.

But if there’s one topic guaranteed to draw a crowd—or hush a room—it’s what’s happened behind the bars. Seventy-seven deaths in Tarrant County jails since 2017. One name, Anthony Johnson Jr., a former Marine whose final hours ended under the weight of a jailer’s knee, echoes darkest. Buker's perspective is shaped by his own years in corrections, and he’s blunt: “Nobody teaches you to put a knee on someone’s back.” With two jailers now facing murder charges, he draws a line: any officer crossing the rules or use-of-force guidelines “won’t get county-paid lawyers on my watch.” He talks about regular jail visits, swift medical care, and a zero-tolerance mindset for abuses—yet never lets policy language eclipse the pain behind each number.

Zoom out from Texas, and the argument over who gets to speak—and who gets heard—feels just as raw. Not long ago, a heated debate on CNN spiraled out of the usual current events orbit. The catalyst: celebrities weighing in on politics, specifically at events like the Grammys. Chris Madel, once a GOP hopeful, had little patience for Hollywood’s interventions. “Enough with actors and pop stars preaching at us,” he vented, singling out Grammy-winner Billie Eilish in particular. Would she give up her mansion to live her values? Madel doubted it.

But Christine Quinn, who used to steer New York’s City Council, pushed back. “It doesn’t matter if you like it. Celebrities have a following—people pay attention,” she insisted. Both parties, she added, scramble for A-list endorsements. Stacey Schneider, working the criminal defense angle, welcomed it all: “It’s the First Amendment in action.” Even critics admitted the effect celebrities have: showing up changes the narrative, even if you wish they wouldn’t.

The discussion took another turn when Keith Boykin, a former White House aide, offered a timely reminder—arguably the world’s most famous celebrity is Donald Trump himself. Celebrity and politics are fused tighter than most people care to admit.

When you step back, the story—local or national—keeps circling the same uneasy question: who really gets to set the agenda? Is it the elected officials, the high-profile challengers, or the voices from far-off stages with millions watching? Tarrant County’s election is about more than contrasting policy proposals; it’s a test of what sort of leadership voters want in an age where both accountability and megaphones are up for grabs.

Buker sums up his pitch with a plainspoken metaphor: “If you can keep 75 different personalities from fighting, you can handle the rest.” What kind of voice Tarrant’s voters decide to trust—steady incumbent or the reformer calling for a clean slate—will ripple out, far beyond the county line.

Change, or more of the same? The months ahead promise no shortage of drama, and—just maybe—an answer to who holds the microphone, and who’s really listening.

There’s a storm rolling in over Tarrant County, and for once, it’s not about the weather. This time, the thunder comes courtesy of Trevor Buker, a Republican challenger with a lengthy career monitoring correctional facilities. His target: Judge Tim O’Hare—a name most locals know, but perhaps not in the way Buker intends to redefine.Buker doesn’t put on airs. He’s spent more hours than he’d care to count watching court sessions from the uncomfortable benches of the county courthouse, watching, listening, and, he claims, witnessing missteps that cut to the bone of constitutional rights. “I’m running again because I’ve seen all the constitutional violations people keep ignoring,” Buker said, not mincing words in an interview with Townhall. Recent lawsuits alleging First Amendment breaches leveled at O’Hare have only given wind to Buker’s sails. “You can’t call yourself a conservative while trampling the Constitution—it just doesn’t hold up,” he observes, frustration barely contained.Taxes are never just numbers on a line or empty campaign promises; they’re the daily anxiety of homeowners across Tarrant County. O’Hare likes to trumpet his cuts—three years running, $58 million sheared from the budget. On the surface, a neat achievement. Go beneath the numbers, however, and Buker is skeptical. “You’ll never see real relief until the Tarrant Appraisal District’s rates are tackled,” he warns. Homeowners confirm as much: their property tax bills keep rising, dwarfed by the relentless march of appraisals. Those budgetary wins politicians like to tout? They get lost, Buker says, “swallowed up” by soaring values almost faster than they’re announced.The tax fairness argument goes further. Buker highlights something that rarely winds up on a press release—corporate tax arrangements doled out like golden tickets. He singles out heavyweights like Amazon, who, according to him, might get a decade-long reprieve from property taxes while residents pick up the slack. “If the big players keep cashing in on these deals, the little guy—the homeowner—just keeps losing ground,” Buker asserts.Buker’s reform wishlist reads like a rebuke to bureaucracy. He’s pressing to trim or eliminate ad valorem taxes, those much-maligned charges tacked onto everything from backyard sheds to modest swimming pools. He talks about shaking up court procedures too, proposing citizens be allowed to handle court sign-ups in person. “More openness, less intimidation,” he summarizes, convinced the system is overdue.But if there’s one topic guaranteed to draw a crowd—or hush a room—it’s what’s happened behind the bars. Seventy-seven deaths in Tarrant County jails since 2017. One name, Anthony Johnson Jr., a former Marine whose final hours ended under the weight of a jailer’s knee, echoes darkest. Buker's perspective is shaped by his own years in corrections, and he’s blunt: “Nobody teaches you to put a knee on someone’s back.” With two jailers now facing murder charges, he draws a line: any officer crossing the rules or use-of-force guidelines “won’t get county-paid lawyers on my watch.” He talks about regular jail visits, swift medical care, and a zero-tolerance mindset for abuses—yet never lets policy language eclipse the pain behind each number.Zoom out from Texas, and the argument over who gets to speak—and who gets heard—feels just as raw. Not long ago, a heated debate on CNN spiraled out of the usual current events orbit. The catalyst: celebrities weighing in on politics, specifically at events like the Grammys. Chris Madel, once a GOP hopeful, had little patience for Hollywood’s interventions. “Enough with actors and pop stars preaching at us,” he vented, singling out Grammy-winner Billie Eilish in particular. Would she give up her mansion to live her values? Madel doubted it.But Christine Quinn, who used to steer New York’s City Council, pushed back. “It doesn’t matter if you like it. Celebrities have a following—people pay attention,” she insisted. Both parties, she added, scramble for A-list endorsements. Stacey Schneider, working the criminal defense angle, welcomed it all: “It’s the First Amendment in action.” Even critics admitted the effect celebrities have: showing up changes the narrative, even if you wish they wouldn’t.The discussion took another turn when Keith Boykin, a former White House aide, offered a timely reminder—arguably the world’s most famous celebrity is Donald Trump himself. Celebrity and politics are fused tighter than most people care to admit.When you step back, the story—local or national—keeps circling the same uneasy question: who really gets to set the agenda? Is it the elected officials, the high-profile challengers, or the voices from far-off stages with millions watching? Tarrant County’s election is about more than contrasting policy proposals; it’s a test of what sort of leadership voters want in an age where both accountability and megaphones are up for grabs.Buker sums up his pitch with a plainspoken metaphor: “If you can keep 75 different personalities from fighting, you can handle the rest.” What kind of voice Tarrant’s voters decide to trust—steady incumbent or the reformer calling for a clean slate—will ripple out, far beyond the county line.Change, or more of the same? The months ahead promise no shortage of drama, and—just maybe—an answer to who holds the microphone, and who’s really listening.