Judge Sparks Outrage: $7M Medicaid Fraudster Walks Free in Minnesota

Paul Riverbank, 12/2/2025$7M Medicaid fraud case overturned—sparking outrage, political calls for reform, and lingering mistrust.

Abdifatah Yusuf, along with his wife, Lul Ahmed, had been found guilty—at least initially. They were accused of siphoning off millions meant for those scraping by on Medicaid and splurging on an eye-popping menagerie of upscale goods; think Michael Kors handbags, slicked-up luxury vehicles, and wardrobes that would make a GQ editor dizzy. Their business, Promise Health, was supposed to offer a helping hand to the vulnerable; it turned out the whole operation could be run from a nondescript mailbox.

The jury, or so several told it later, didn’t need much convincing. "It wasn’t a hard call," said Ben Walfoort, who led the group in deliberations. He seemed matter-of-fact, not giddy or gleeful—just certain. The state’s case, marked by reams of account transfers (one totaling $1 million straight into Yusuf’s own name) and cash withdrawals north of $380,000, carried the day. It took them less than half a morning. “All of us saw the same thing,” another juror reflected. There was little second-guessing.

That made what happened next all the more confounding. Minnesota District Judge Sarah West, tasked with surveying the record, swept the convictions off the board. In her opinion, much of the proof was circumstantial—enough, maybe, for raised eyebrows, but not quite ironclad. She allowed, too, that the way fraud had been threaded through Promise Health was “troubling.” Still, she ruled there were other plausible stories the evidence might tell.

Unsurprisingly, this set off a small firestorm, especially among local lawmakers. State Representative Kristin Robbins, who has seen her share of government programs stretched to the breaking point, called for new statutes—sharper, tighter laws that don’t leave so much room for legal gymnastics. "The jury found guilt, plain and simple," she insisted at a hurried press gathering, bracing herself against the wind.

And if you ask around, anger hangs heavier than confusion. Walfoort, the jury foreperson, responded to the reversal not so much with outrage as with a kind of head-shaking disbelief. “I’m shocked,” he repeated to whoever would listen, quietly circling back to the files and facts the jury had seen. "It seemed obvious to us."

But the defense saw validation in the judge’s words. Ian Birrell, the attorney on Yusuf’s side, painted a picture of dogged perseverance—a client accused in error, maligned by public suspicion. The decision, he said, gave them back what they never should have lost.

Now, with the attorney general’s office moving to appeal, the story lurches forward again. For many in Minnesota, the memory of the Feeding Our Future scandal still aches—the revelation that hundreds of millions in pandemic relief vanished into untraceable hands, in some cases linking back to Somali terrorists. Against that backdrop, courtroom dramas like these feel less like outliers and more like chapters in a longer, troubling saga.

Political rhetoric has grown sharper. Former President Trump, in customary fashion, tied new restrictions on Somali deportations to claims about organized crime and the disappearance of vast public sums. His words added another spark to an already heated environment, blurring the lines between fact-finding and politicking.

So as the higher courts prepare to take another look, uncertainty lingers. Minnesotans are left examining the seams of their safety nets, wondering whether reform will happen—or if, instead, they’ll be left patching up the holes for years to come. In a state scorched by scandal and shadowed by mistrust, the answers remain elusive—and the impact, personal.

It’s not unusual for folks in Minnesota to feel uneasy about what goes on behind courthouse doors, but news that a judge tossed aside a $7.2 million Medicaid fraud conviction sent a chill wind right through the state’s capital. On the street outside the courthouse, word spread quickly—and the details only muddied the water.Abdifatah Yusuf, along with his wife, Lul Ahmed, had been found guilty—at least initially. They were accused of siphoning off millions meant for those scraping by on Medicaid and splurging on an eye-popping menagerie of upscale goods; think Michael Kors handbags, slicked-up luxury vehicles, and wardrobes that would make a GQ editor dizzy. Their business, Promise Health, was supposed to offer a helping hand to the vulnerable; it turned out the whole operation could be run from a nondescript mailbox.The jury, or so several told it later, didn’t need much convincing. "It wasn’t a hard call," said Ben Walfoort, who led the group in deliberations. He seemed matter-of-fact, not giddy or gleeful—just certain. The state’s case, marked by reams of account transfers (one totaling $1 million straight into Yusuf’s own name) and cash withdrawals north of $380,000, carried the day. It took them less than half a morning. “All of us saw the same thing,” another juror reflected. There was little second-guessing.That made what happened next all the more confounding. Minnesota District Judge Sarah West, tasked with surveying the record, swept the convictions off the board. In her opinion, much of the proof was circumstantial—enough, maybe, for raised eyebrows, but not quite ironclad. She allowed, too, that the way fraud had been threaded through Promise Health was “troubling.” Still, she ruled there were other plausible stories the evidence might tell.Unsurprisingly, this set off a small firestorm, especially among local lawmakers. State Representative Kristin Robbins, who has seen her share of government programs stretched to the breaking point, called for new statutes—sharper, tighter laws that don’t leave so much room for legal gymnastics. "The jury found guilt, plain and simple," she insisted at a hurried press gathering, bracing herself against the wind.And if you ask around, anger hangs heavier than confusion. Walfoort, the jury foreperson, responded to the reversal not so much with outrage as with a kind of head-shaking disbelief. “I’m shocked,” he repeated to whoever would listen, quietly circling back to the files and facts the jury had seen. "It seemed obvious to us."But the defense saw validation in the judge’s words. Ian Birrell, the attorney on Yusuf’s side, painted a picture of dogged perseverance—a client accused in error, maligned by public suspicion. The decision, he said, gave them back what they never should have lost.Now, with the attorney general’s office moving to appeal, the story lurches forward again. For many in Minnesota, the memory of the Feeding Our Future scandal still aches—the revelation that hundreds of millions in pandemic relief vanished into untraceable hands, in some cases linking back to Somali terrorists. Against that backdrop, courtroom dramas like these feel less like outliers and more like chapters in a longer, troubling saga.Political rhetoric has grown sharper. Former President Trump, in customary fashion, tied new restrictions on Somali deportations to claims about organized crime and the disappearance of vast public sums. His words added another spark to an already heated environment, blurring the lines between fact-finding and politicking.So as the higher courts prepare to take another look, uncertainty lingers. Minnesotans are left examining the seams of their safety nets, wondering whether reform will happen—or if, instead, they’ll be left patching up the holes for years to come. In a state scorched by scandal and shadowed by mistrust, the answers remain elusive—and the impact, personal.