Hi, everyone. I’m not sure Minne ever mentioned me on the blog here, so please allow me to introduce myself real quick and then we’ll get into what’s going on with Minne and her case and how you can help. I’m Andrea, and I’m Minne’s newsletter admin. Usually I help out with tech queries, managing her subscriptions, and online promo. Today, I’m here to post an update on what’s been happening the last couple weeks.
On Thursday, February 22, Minne was charged under the Emergency Expanded Patriot Act following the publication of this post concerning a recent incident Minne witnessed in Chicago involving President Ruiz. Federal prosecutors have alleged that Minne engaged in the “unlawful exchange” of “sensitive information relating to national security” with “entities hostile to the freedom and safety of the United States.” To be emphatically clear: Jasmine Rebuke denies these allegations. She does have legal representation, and voluntarily presented herself to law enforcement officials in Gallum County on Monday, February 26. She has not been released from custody, but we are optimistic about having her home soon.
We are disappointed that some publications who have published Minne’s work in the past have chosen to remove her articles from their sites and archives. But we believe there is no reason to remove any of the content Minne previously published here on her newsletter, and in fact encourage readers to share it widely in the spirit of free speech and support for a free press.
I’ll have more information on how readers can contribute to Minne’s defense in the coming days. I’m sure Minne would want me to thank you all for the kind words and support.
You can take the job away from the reporter, but you can’t take the reporter away from the keyboard. Subscribe to Minne Moves Home for dispatches on national news, the ‘24 presidential race, and snapshots of small-town Texas life.
A few days ago, Rudy Ruiz’s press office gave me two options: publish what I’m going to write in this post and risk not just my career but my freedom, or continue enjoying “the privilege” of following Ruiz on the campaign trail and participating in an ongoing cover-up of the president’s health issues. After consulting with a legal team from the Freelancer’s Guild and doing some hard thinking about my role as a journalist in these ~ unprecedented ~ times, I came to a conclusion. One I might regret.
Spoiler alert: I’m back home in Turner Falls and, well, you’re reading this.
I didn’t clock the initial signs that something was amiss; when Ruiz’s team started pulling him from campaign events earlier than scheduled, I took it as a precautionary measure following the campaign bombing in New Hampshire last month. And there’s plenty going on in the world that would explain Ruiz being called away suddenly during interviews and press briefings to do the actual job of being president. But on February 8, after a blow-out win in the Nevada caucus, Ruiz skipped his victory-lap appearance at the Trump International Hotel in Vegas, disappointing hundreds of supporters and leaving the speechifying to Vice President Grantham. (The VP got what I’ll call a thoroughly tepid reception, despite fiery delivery from a 95-year-old who is looking remarkably spry these days. I don’t think the stress of the presidency, especially with Ruiz dogging him over the 25th Amendment, particularly agreed with Grantham.)
The Ruiz campaign described Grantham’s surrogate appearance as a “goodwill gesture” meant to show that the men had “repaired” their relationship after the “tense events” of 2023. This smelled like bullshit to me, so I put in a request for a one-on-one with Ruiz at his earliest convenience, which turned out to be on Valentine’s Day of all days. We met in Ruiz’s suite at the Langham Hotel in Chicago, a couple of hours before Ruiz was scheduled to host a “Luv 2 Luv Rudy” fundraiser dinner for highfalutin midwestern donors.
An aide escorted me into the room. Ruiz, who appeared to be lost in contemplation at the window, turned after a few seconds and dismissed the staffer with the assurance that he’d be “just fine” for a few minutes. We shook hands, and I could see the impact of several weeks’ hard campaigning and, I assumed, the stressful aftermath of the attack on his campaign back east. The president looked almost wet — swimming, jellied eyes, sagging jowls, his usually crisp suit practically swallowing his typically athletic frame. But he still had the charm turned up to eleven.
“I reckon I’m not the guy you’d like to be sitting across from tonight?”
“Or the woman, actually.” (I can do charm, too. Even if it means needling the most powerful homophobe in America.)
Ruiz laughed, which turned into a choking cough and a labored attempt to pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the parlor table between us. Once he’d composed himself, I asked the president if he was alright, and said he looked tired. Were the New Hampshire bombings still weighing on him?
“I’m just damn glad no one was seriously injured, praise Jesus above. I know I look like heck, but I told them I thought my hometown reporter deserved a few answers.”
Well then, I figured, let’s get right into it. “You’re leaving scheduled appearances early, and you skipped your victory party in Vegas. That should have been a huge night for you, but you turned the spotlight over to Grantham. Why?”
“Ashleigh’s getting on up there, I thought it’d be nice to give the old guy a thrill.”
“He’s your vice president; if you win in November, and it looks like you will, it seems like there are plenty of thrills on the way still.”
I let a long silence hang between us. Old reporter’s trick. Shut up until they don’t.
Finally: “You’re right. I’m not going to call November a foregone, but it is. Nikki will drop out of this thing soon. I haven’t even looked at the numbers for the other guys, but they can’t catch me, even if they put up that red-faced pinko punk from Seattle the girls your age are so crazy about. Though I gather he’s maybe not your, uh, type.”
I ignored this little dig. The “red-faced pinko punk from Seattle” is, of course, Democratic Congressman Niles Kirkpatrick, formerly of 90s grunge band Grass Scandal.
“So you’re conserving your energy for the easy fight ahead?”
“You could say that.” Ruiz reached for his glass, then retracted when he noticed me noticing his hands shaking. Not nerves, surely? He’s given thousands and thousands of interviews, lots of them to reporters tougher and higher-profile than Jasmine Rebuke of the Perpetually Hustling Freelancer Times.
“Well, can I say it? Is that why you’re pulling back on public appearances? Mr. President, the American people deserve to know that you’re in shape to run the country for another four years. Commentators are saying you’re rattled by the bombings. That you’re cowed by the first real pushback, the first direct attack, you’ve received in years.”
“I’m not cowed! Never call me cowed!” The president pushed himself to his feet with an exasperated grunt, then pitched forward and caught himself on the low table, sending the pitcher of water tumbling to the floor with Ruiz not far behind.
Secret Service agents swarmed the room in moments. I barely had enough time — and the wherewithal — to switch on my camera before an agent grabbed me by both shoulders and hustled me into the hallway. The agent posted up between me and the suite, blocking my view of what was happening inside until the president appeared gasping in the doorway, propelling himself forward in a kind of flailing army-crawl.
Over the buzz and crackle of Secret Service radios and what sounded like a half-dozen people yelling for medics, I could just hear the president rasping out a demand for what sounded like “the serum” before deflating into unconsciousness.
I spent the next hour sequestered in the presidential suite’s security detail room, giving a statement three times over to the Secret Service, Chicago PD, and the FBI. From this interaction, I learned that the feds have quite the file on me — though I assume they have something similar on everyone who gets cleared for the president’s campaign press corps. I was moments from asking if I seriously needed to lawyer up before Ruiz’s chief of staff came into the room to tell me I was free to head back to my own room on the media floor — a relief. Could this be that easy? Of course not: the CoS told me I was not, however, free to write about what had happened, and the president’s legal team would be contacting me shortly to discuss my “options.”
I pushed back, of course. This wasn’t just news, or even just headline news — this was ground-shaking news. Matter-of-national-security news that the American people had a right to hear. And as soon as I said that out loud, I knew I’d screwed myself. I’m not a lawyer, but I’m familiar enough with the Emergency Expanded Patriot Act to know that my aforementioned “options” were going to be extremely limited unless I wanted to face time in a federal lock-up.
I’m not proud of it, but I capitulated. I caught the first flight back to Gallum County and lived to write another day — today. And that’s curious, isn’t it? That the only woman in the room when the president suddenly collapsed was sent back to get a good night’s sleep after a mere hour’s interrogation about what had just transpired? That no one wondered if, I don’t know, a journalist who’s been recently critical of the president poisoned him after he’d been the target of a domestic terror weeks before?
The only answer I can come up with is this: whatever happened to President Ruiz was not a surprise to the people closest to him. Indeed, Ruiz was back on the campaign trail the next day, stumping in Cleveland, looking robust and fresh-faced at a local meat packing plant.
Perhaps “the serum” worked. But why had he needed it so badly — and so suddenly — in the first place?
You can take the job away from the reporter, but you can’t take the reporter away from the keyboard. Subscribe to Minne Moves Home for dispatches on national news, the ‘24 presidential race, and snapshots of small-town Texas life.
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