Minnesota Opens Door to Welfare Fraud—Texas Locks Down Jails in Immigration War

Paul Riverbank, 1/2/2026Minnesota expands welfare amid fraud worries; Texas tightens immigration jails—two starkly different experiments.

Minnesota’s shiny new paid family and medical leave law—already branded by some as a lifeline for working class parents—has drawn others out in protest. They say fear of fraud hangs heavy here, a hangover from string after string of state aid scandals. Most Minnesotans still remember headlines about millions vanishing from Medicaid or food assistance meant for children during COVID’s worst months. Some of those charged in these cases, officials say, arrived as refugees, thrusting the immigrant community into a spotlight it never wanted.

At issue, according to immigration enforcement voices like ICE’s Todd Lyons, is the idea that “sanctuary” policies make it easy to disappear in plain sight. There’s frustration in his tone as he recites examples: suspects with deep roots in local mosques or markets, indicted for elaborate schemes—child care assistance, meal reimbursement fraud—who, protected by jurisdictional rules, slip through law enforcement’s grasp. Lyons isn’t alone in painting sanctuary rules as an unwitting partner to fraud, and he points to complex, years-long investigations that discovered labor trafficking tangled up with state-level protections.

The reaction in St. Paul has been two-fold. First, there’s the official response—task forces, new verification layers, and vows of transparency. Yet critics claim the paid leave plan, as written, skips necessary safeguards. Undocumented workers, estimated in the tens of thousands, are eligible. It’s a hallmark of inclusivity for progressives. For skeptics, though, it’s open season for abuse, especially at a time when budget offices fret over stability. The $1.6 billion tax bill to launch the program looms large for small businesses already counting their margins by the decimal. “Twelve weeks out—six more if it’s medical—you’re darn right folks will have to let staff go or close shop,” barked the owner of a family hardware store in Duluth.

It doesn’t end there. Even as the state leans hard into “European-style” social programs, critics toss Minnesota’s patchwork of voting rules back into the conversation. This year, complaints have surged about absentee ballot vouching—a quirky quirk recognizable to any local campaign volunteer. The rule lets one eligible voter vouch for eight others in person. Pair that with soft Social Security requirements, and the arguments begin: too much trust, too little oversight.

Meanwhile, what’s unfolding in Texas might as well be another country’s experiment. There, new immigration law now requires every county jail—whether nestled along the Red River or in downtown Houston—to lock arms with federal ICE officers. This isn’t theoretical; lawmakers mean all 234 counties by 2026. Todd Lyons, predictably, is delighted. “Safety for the officers and for suspects—it works,” he told me in a measured tone reserved for surfacing hard truths.

Rural sheriffs see it as a win, a concrete tool to push back against what many feel is a ceaseless churn of deportable offenders slipping through the cracks. Yet, walk the corridors of Harris County’s fortress-like jail and you’ll hear quieter dissent. Big city officials, notably in Houston, Austin, and Dallas, have kept their distance from the 287(g) program, wary of riling up communities already on edge.

In truth, both states expose the limits of bright-line policymaking. Texas offers no sanctuary—every alleged criminal is available to ICE, no questions asked. Minnesota stretches safety nets wider, betting that oversight and trust can hold the line against fraud. But practical realities—like understaffed agencies, overwhelmed courts, and skeptical voters—intrude on even the best laid plans.

Here’s where the lesson lies. Is it possible to deliver bold, protective benefits without inviting exploitation? Or to secure communities against criminality without feeding anxiety and eroding hard-won trust?

As I waded through courthouse interviews and late-night conversations with policymakers, it’s clear: the country is watching. Whether the experiment in Minnesota holds under fiscal and political pressure, or Texas’s crackdown does more to reassure than to divide, neither path will be isolated. Eventually, the rest of us will confront these same questions, nudged along by local news or national headlines—maybe while waiting in line at a corner store, or huddled around a kitchen table, listening for the distant ripple of policies made far away, but felt close to home.

It’s a brisk Thursday morning outside the Hennepin County courthouse, where a young mother clutches her toddler, waiting for her call time in a fraud hearing. Her case—one of dozens—illustrates something more complicated than it first appears: when sweeping social policy runs headlong into the messy world of enforcement, community trust, and, as critics argue, creative exploitation.Minnesota’s shiny new paid family and medical leave law—already branded by some as a lifeline for working class parents—has drawn others out in protest. They say fear of fraud hangs heavy here, a hangover from string after string of state aid scandals. Most Minnesotans still remember headlines about millions vanishing from Medicaid or food assistance meant for children during COVID’s worst months. Some of those charged in these cases, officials say, arrived as refugees, thrusting the immigrant community into a spotlight it never wanted.At issue, according to immigration enforcement voices like ICE’s Todd Lyons, is the idea that “sanctuary” policies make it easy to disappear in plain sight. There’s frustration in his tone as he recites examples: suspects with deep roots in local mosques or markets, indicted for elaborate schemes—child care assistance, meal reimbursement fraud—who, protected by jurisdictional rules, slip through law enforcement’s grasp. Lyons isn’t alone in painting sanctuary rules as an unwitting partner to fraud, and he points to complex, years-long investigations that discovered labor trafficking tangled up with state-level protections.The reaction in St. Paul has been two-fold. First, there’s the official response—task forces, new verification layers, and vows of transparency. Yet critics claim the paid leave plan, as written, skips necessary safeguards. Undocumented workers, estimated in the tens of thousands, are eligible. It’s a hallmark of inclusivity for progressives. For skeptics, though, it’s open season for abuse, especially at a time when budget offices fret over stability. The $1.6 billion tax bill to launch the program looms large for small businesses already counting their margins by the decimal. “Twelve weeks out—six more if it’s medical—you’re darn right folks will have to let staff go or close shop,” barked the owner of a family hardware store in Duluth.It doesn’t end there. Even as the state leans hard into “European-style” social programs, critics toss Minnesota’s patchwork of voting rules back into the conversation. This year, complaints have surged about absentee ballot vouching—a quirky quirk recognizable to any local campaign volunteer. The rule lets one eligible voter vouch for eight others in person. Pair that with soft Social Security requirements, and the arguments begin: too much trust, too little oversight.Meanwhile, what’s unfolding in Texas might as well be another country’s experiment. There, new immigration law now requires every county jail—whether nestled along the Red River or in downtown Houston—to lock arms with federal ICE officers. This isn’t theoretical; lawmakers mean all 234 counties by 2026. Todd Lyons, predictably, is delighted. “Safety for the officers and for suspects—it works,” he told me in a measured tone reserved for surfacing hard truths.Rural sheriffs see it as a win, a concrete tool to push back against what many feel is a ceaseless churn of deportable offenders slipping through the cracks. Yet, walk the corridors of Harris County’s fortress-like jail and you’ll hear quieter dissent. Big city officials, notably in Houston, Austin, and Dallas, have kept their distance from the 287(g) program, wary of riling up communities already on edge.In truth, both states expose the limits of bright-line policymaking. Texas offers no sanctuary—every alleged criminal is available to ICE, no questions asked. Minnesota stretches safety nets wider, betting that oversight and trust can hold the line against fraud. But practical realities—like understaffed agencies, overwhelmed courts, and skeptical voters—intrude on even the best laid plans.Here’s where the lesson lies. Is it possible to deliver bold, protective benefits without inviting exploitation? Or to secure communities against criminality without feeding anxiety and eroding hard-won trust?As I waded through courthouse interviews and late-night conversations with policymakers, it’s clear: the country is watching. Whether the experiment in Minnesota holds under fiscal and political pressure, or Texas’s crackdown does more to reassure than to divide, neither path will be isolated. Eventually, the rest of us will confront these same questions, nudged along by local news or national headlines—maybe while waiting in line at a corner store, or huddled around a kitchen table, listening for the distant ripple of policies made far away, but felt close to home.