Judge Boasberg Defies Trump, Risks National Security With Migrant Ruling

Paul Riverbank, 12/24/2025Judge Boasberg’s ruling challenges rapid migrant expulsions, highlighting the clash between security and due process.

Not long ago, the Trump administration had revived the 1798 Alien Enemies Act—legislation so old one might expect to find it gathering dust in a forgotten archive. President Trump cited "Tren de Aragua," a notorious Venezuelan gang, branding it a terror threat and using the act as justification to deport suspected members at breakneck speed. Some detainees had rap sheets, authorities said; others' records were vague or unsubstantiated. Still, planes left within hours.

Amid the legal haze, Judge James Boasberg stepped in. His initial attempt to halt removals fell short—by the time the ink dried on his order, the migrants were already behind bars in El Salvador’s CECOT, a prison designed for hardened terrorists. Yet Boasberg pressed on: He certified the group as a class, acknowledging that even from afar, they remained under the United States’ constructive custody. In his view, deporting people with neither warning nor a hearing ran afoul of not just legal protocol, but justice itself.

“If the government can simply vanish people to another country without recourse,” the judge reasoned, “what’s left of the Great Writ?” He didn’t mince words about the risks of error—that some sent off to languish in Salvadoran cells may have had no gang links at all was, for him, unconscionable. In cases like these, consequences aren’t diagrams on legal pads—they are months, even years, of actual lives lost to the administrative machinery.

Boasberg’s mid-June order didn't demand the return of the deportees (at least, not directly). Instead, he mandated an opportunity for the Venezuelans to contest both their removal and their alleged ties to organized crime. Whether that chance unfolds back on U.S. soil or in a Salvadoran courtroom remains to be seen; federal officials have until early January to reveal their game plan.

Predictably, the backlash arrived quickly. Detractors such as Rep. Brandon Gill accused the judge of overstepping, with Gill firing off impeachment articles for what he calls “a constitutional crisis.” Professor Rob Luther, never shy about voicing predictions, declared on cable news, “Judge Boasberg might make history as the 16th federal judge ever impeached—just wait for 2026.” It’s a bold statement, but reflective of the tension simmering between the branches of government.

Meanwhile, civil liberties groups see the judge’s stance differently. The ACLU described the ruling as a vindication—not just for those locked away abroad, but for the rule of law itself. “Secretive removals can’t be shielded from judicial review,” they argued, with a palpable sense of relief.

And yet, the practicalities are far from settled. The U.S. did manage, after some diplomatic wrangling, to get a handful of detainees returned from El Salvador to American territory. This, for Judge Boasberg, further underscored that the administration retains significant influence—and, by extension, responsibility—for the fate of the deported.

All this, as is often true with legal decisions at the intersection of national security and human rights, feels both urgent and unresolved. Should the courts have say over who boards those late-night flights out of the country? Is the rapid removal of suspected criminals a legitimate exercise of authority—or a dangerous shortcut around fundamental freedoms?

For now, Judge Boasberg's order stands as a rebuke to the idea that expedience can trump process. Congress, the judiciary, and two White Houses are tangled in its wake. The showdown isn't just about the fate of 130 migrants; it’s about the boundaries of power, how America wields it, and what happens when law, security, and individual rights refuse to fall neatly in line.

In a Washington, D.C. courtroom on an unremarkable Monday, two forces collided—one, a federal judge with a heavy, clear-eyed insistence on due process; the other, the boundless authority of executive power wielded in the name of national security. The flashpoint of their standoff: over 130 Venezuelan migrants whisked out of the United States, deposited in a Salvadoran mega-prison, and caught in the crosshairs of international politics.Not long ago, the Trump administration had revived the 1798 Alien Enemies Act—legislation so old one might expect to find it gathering dust in a forgotten archive. President Trump cited "Tren de Aragua," a notorious Venezuelan gang, branding it a terror threat and using the act as justification to deport suspected members at breakneck speed. Some detainees had rap sheets, authorities said; others' records were vague or unsubstantiated. Still, planes left within hours.Amid the legal haze, Judge James Boasberg stepped in. His initial attempt to halt removals fell short—by the time the ink dried on his order, the migrants were already behind bars in El Salvador’s CECOT, a prison designed for hardened terrorists. Yet Boasberg pressed on: He certified the group as a class, acknowledging that even from afar, they remained under the United States’ constructive custody. In his view, deporting people with neither warning nor a hearing ran afoul of not just legal protocol, but justice itself.“If the government can simply vanish people to another country without recourse,” the judge reasoned, “what’s left of the Great Writ?” He didn’t mince words about the risks of error—that some sent off to languish in Salvadoran cells may have had no gang links at all was, for him, unconscionable. In cases like these, consequences aren’t diagrams on legal pads—they are months, even years, of actual lives lost to the administrative machinery.Boasberg’s mid-June order didn't demand the return of the deportees (at least, not directly). Instead, he mandated an opportunity for the Venezuelans to contest both their removal and their alleged ties to organized crime. Whether that chance unfolds back on U.S. soil or in a Salvadoran courtroom remains to be seen; federal officials have until early January to reveal their game plan.Predictably, the backlash arrived quickly. Detractors such as Rep. Brandon Gill accused the judge of overstepping, with Gill firing off impeachment articles for what he calls “a constitutional crisis.” Professor Rob Luther, never shy about voicing predictions, declared on cable news, “Judge Boasberg might make history as the 16th federal judge ever impeached—just wait for 2026.” It’s a bold statement, but reflective of the tension simmering between the branches of government.Meanwhile, civil liberties groups see the judge’s stance differently. The ACLU described the ruling as a vindication—not just for those locked away abroad, but for the rule of law itself. “Secretive removals can’t be shielded from judicial review,” they argued, with a palpable sense of relief.And yet, the practicalities are far from settled. The U.S. did manage, after some diplomatic wrangling, to get a handful of detainees returned from El Salvador to American territory. This, for Judge Boasberg, further underscored that the administration retains significant influence—and, by extension, responsibility—for the fate of the deported.All this, as is often true with legal decisions at the intersection of national security and human rights, feels both urgent and unresolved. Should the courts have say over who boards those late-night flights out of the country? Is the rapid removal of suspected criminals a legitimate exercise of authority—or a dangerous shortcut around fundamental freedoms?For now, Judge Boasberg's order stands as a rebuke to the idea that expedience can trump process. Congress, the judiciary, and two White Houses are tangled in its wake. The showdown isn't just about the fate of 130 migrants; it’s about the boundaries of power, how America wields it, and what happens when law, security, and individual rights refuse to fall neatly in line.