Trump Warns Minneapolis Mayor: ‘You’re Playing With Fire’ Over ICE Standoff

Paul Riverbank, 1/29/2026Tensions erupt in Minneapolis as Trump pressures city over ICE standoff, trust, and local safety.

The tension, already high, burst open after the shooting of Alex Pretti, a nurse whose last day began like any other but ended in chaos during what ICE officials described as a routine encounter. His death left a raw, open wound in the city, and it did not go unnoticed by the state’s governor, Tim Walz. “We’re under siege—make no mistake,” Walz told CNN, anger pressing into every syllable as he listed off stories: families barricaded inside their homes, neighbors whispering rumors over back fences, trust unraveling between residents and police.

Meanwhile, the latest federal move arrived in the form of Tom Homan—Trump’s “Border Czar”—sent to, depending on who you ask, restore order or dig the trench even deeper. Homan, never shy about stating his mission, made his rounds, but Mayor Jacob Frey met him with an icy kind of candor. Later, in a press briefing that felt almost defiant, Frey doubled down: Minneapolis police, he insisted, weren’t federal proxies. If anything, their job was squarely local—“Our officers aren’t going to spend their time chasing paperwork violations. I need them at homicide scenes. Period.” It was as much a statement of policy as of pride.

Naturally, things didn’t end there. Trump himself, saw to that, his words rolling out fast and sharp on social media—as they so often do. “Mayor Jacob Frey…playing with fire,” the President warned, his post sounding more like a rebuke than an invitation to compromise. The accusation hung in the digital air: by refusing to aid ICE, Frey stood accused of flouting federal law, even endangering Minneapolis. The President’s supporters, faithful readers of his feed, didn’t need more.

But Frey gave no sign of stepping back. He pointed out that policing worked best when people trusted the badge, not when officers played immigration agent. “Even Giuliani knew this in New York,” Frey argued. “If people don’t dial 911 because they’re afraid, everyone—citizen or not—ends up less safe.”

His words found sympathy in unexpected quarters. Elizabeth Kautz, the Republican mayor down in Burnsville, shared her own anxieties. “When ICE is in town, nobody feels sure of their place anymore. I nearly brought my ID to the grocery store, just so I wouldn’t get hassled,” she admitted. These were not the stories of radical protestors, but of local officials wrestling with what law enforcement should be.

Inside City Hall, the phone lines buzzed with reporters asking a version of the same question: Where does the city draw the line? David Holt, speaking for the country’s mayors, tried to capture the mood. “Break down trust in one place, and you lose it everywhere. If policing becomes a matter of us-versus-them, everyone’s at greater risk,” he told me, sounding less like a politician and more like someone who’s walked too many crime scenes.

It’s not just theory, either. Retired Fresno police chief Jerry Dryer, now mayor, recalls patrols where the uniform itself made every conversation harder. “If we’re perceived as an occupying army,” he shrugs, “good luck getting anyone to talk to us, witness or victim. That’s reality.”

Trump, for his part, attempted to soften the narrative, describing his interactions with Frey and Walz as “respectful, very nice calls”—but nothing about the situation suggests easy harmonies. If anything, the chasm between city and federal government feels as wide as the river that splits Minneapolis, its waters running cold beneath the city’s bridges as evening falls.

It’s the ordinary details—sunset over plywood-covered storefronts, families double-locking their doors—that capture what’s often missing in headlines. Policy, in Minneapolis these days, is lived as much as it’s debated. The debate over where law enforcement’s responsibility ends, and federal authority begins, isn’t just something for cable news panels or political talking points. It’s written in the faces of kids hurrying home from after-school practice, in a city that suddenly feels much smaller and much less sure of itself.

People here aren’t waiting for the next order from Washington. They’re waiting for calm—a thing that, just now, seems both necessary and impossibly scarce.

There are nights in Minneapolis now when you’ll notice it: a kind of stiffness in the air, doors bolted earlier than usual, porch lights flickering on before the sun sinks behind the warehouses. Walk past the intersection of 38th and Minnehaha, and you might catch a mother hurrying her son along, both cutting nervous glances over their shoulders. This isn’t the city’s usual anxiety. It’s the tension that comes—inevitably—when local and federal powers lock horns, and everyone else gets caught in the crossfire.The tension, already high, burst open after the shooting of Alex Pretti, a nurse whose last day began like any other but ended in chaos during what ICE officials described as a routine encounter. His death left a raw, open wound in the city, and it did not go unnoticed by the state’s governor, Tim Walz. “We’re under siege—make no mistake,” Walz told CNN, anger pressing into every syllable as he listed off stories: families barricaded inside their homes, neighbors whispering rumors over back fences, trust unraveling between residents and police.Meanwhile, the latest federal move arrived in the form of Tom Homan—Trump’s “Border Czar”—sent to, depending on who you ask, restore order or dig the trench even deeper. Homan, never shy about stating his mission, made his rounds, but Mayor Jacob Frey met him with an icy kind of candor. Later, in a press briefing that felt almost defiant, Frey doubled down: Minneapolis police, he insisted, weren’t federal proxies. If anything, their job was squarely local—“Our officers aren’t going to spend their time chasing paperwork violations. I need them at homicide scenes. Period.” It was as much a statement of policy as of pride.Naturally, things didn’t end there. Trump himself, saw to that, his words rolling out fast and sharp on social media—as they so often do. “Mayor Jacob Frey…playing with fire,” the President warned, his post sounding more like a rebuke than an invitation to compromise. The accusation hung in the digital air: by refusing to aid ICE, Frey stood accused of flouting federal law, even endangering Minneapolis. The President’s supporters, faithful readers of his feed, didn’t need more.But Frey gave no sign of stepping back. He pointed out that policing worked best when people trusted the badge, not when officers played immigration agent. “Even Giuliani knew this in New York,” Frey argued. “If people don’t dial 911 because they’re afraid, everyone—citizen or not—ends up less safe.”His words found sympathy in unexpected quarters. Elizabeth Kautz, the Republican mayor down in Burnsville, shared her own anxieties. “When ICE is in town, nobody feels sure of their place anymore. I nearly brought my ID to the grocery store, just so I wouldn’t get hassled,” she admitted. These were not the stories of radical protestors, but of local officials wrestling with what law enforcement should be.Inside City Hall, the phone lines buzzed with reporters asking a version of the same question: Where does the city draw the line? David Holt, speaking for the country’s mayors, tried to capture the mood. “Break down trust in one place, and you lose it everywhere. If policing becomes a matter of us-versus-them, everyone’s at greater risk,” he told me, sounding less like a politician and more like someone who’s walked too many crime scenes.It’s not just theory, either. Retired Fresno police chief Jerry Dryer, now mayor, recalls patrols where the uniform itself made every conversation harder. “If we’re perceived as an occupying army,” he shrugs, “good luck getting anyone to talk to us, witness or victim. That’s reality.”Trump, for his part, attempted to soften the narrative, describing his interactions with Frey and Walz as “respectful, very nice calls”—but nothing about the situation suggests easy harmonies. If anything, the chasm between city and federal government feels as wide as the river that splits Minneapolis, its waters running cold beneath the city’s bridges as evening falls.It’s the ordinary details—sunset over plywood-covered storefronts, families double-locking their doors—that capture what’s often missing in headlines. Policy, in Minneapolis these days, is lived as much as it’s debated. The debate over where law enforcement’s responsibility ends, and federal authority begins, isn’t just something for cable news panels or political talking points. It’s written in the faces of kids hurrying home from after-school practice, in a city that suddenly feels much smaller and much less sure of itself.People here aren’t waiting for the next order from Washington. They’re waiting for calm—a thing that, just now, seems both necessary and impossibly scarce.