Woke Governor Turns Cops AGAINST ICE – Sheriffs Down Tools

Maryland just severed a formal law-enforcement pipeline to ICE, and the aftershock will land in jail booking rooms, sheriff offices, and neighborhoods long before it reaches a courtroom.

Story Snapshot

Gov. Wes Moore signed emergency legislation that immediately bans Maryland agencies from entering 287(g) agreements with ICE.
Nine counties must unwind existing memoranda of agreement that let local officers perform limited federal immigration tasks.
Sheriffs opposing the ban say they will keep cooperating through other legal channels, even without a 287(g) badge.
Supporters frame the move as protecting “Maryland values”; critics frame it as a public-safety gamble with predictable federal blowback.

An emergency law with an immediate target: nine Maryland counties

Gov. Wes Moore signed the 287(g) ban as emergency legislation, meaning Maryland didn’t just “plan” to change course; it changed course on the spot. The law blocks state and local agencies from signing or maintaining the agreements that authorize trained local officers to carry out certain immigration enforcement functions under ICE oversight. The practical impact concentrates in nine counties that previously participated, forcing agencies to terminate formal cooperation structures.

That immediacy matters because 287(g) isn’t a slogan; it’s a workflow. It determines what happens during intake at a county jail, how information gets routed, and how fast federal authorities learn a removable noncitizen has been arrested. Pulling the plug doesn’t stop ICE from enforcing federal law, but it changes where enforcement happens. Instead of controlled handoffs from jail to federal custody, more of the work can shift to street-level operations.

What 287(g) actually does inside a jail, minus the political fog

Section 287(g) dates to 1996 and allows ICE to delegate limited authority through memoranda of agreement. Maryland used two common models. The “jail model” centers on screening detainees for immigration status in a custodial setting. The “warrant model” focuses on cooperation around Department of Homeland Security warrants and related processes. Either way, 287(g) formalizes training, supervision, and documentation so local participation looks less like improvisation and more like an audited program.

Supporters of the ban argue that formal partnerships can chill cooperation with local police and blur the line between local public safety and federal immigration priorities. Opponents counter that the jail setting is the least chaotic place to sort identity questions because suspects are already in custody for other reasons. Common sense lands in the uncomfortable middle: the public has a right to safe communities and an orderly immigration system, but Congress left states to mop up the consequences with uneven tools.

The political fuse: Trump’s crackdown promises meet Maryland’s resistance

The ban lands in a national environment primed for collision. Republicans control the federal trifecta, and the Trump administration’s deportation talk raised the temperature across blue states. Moore, for his part, has criticized both parties’ handling of immigration, arguing Washington punted the problem for years. That bipartisan critique resonates with voters tired of chaos at the border and chaos in their towns—two realities that feel linked even when the policies are not.

Maryland legislators framed the emergency action as a values decision and a boundary line: local departments should not become extensions of federal immigration enforcement. Conservatives will hear another familiar tune: state leaders resisting federal authority while still expecting federal resources when disasters strike. That tension isn’t theoretical in Maryland, where prior disputes over “sanctuary” approaches in other states have been associated with claims of federal retaliation, tighter oversight, or reduced cooperation.

Sheriffs promise workarounds, and that’s where the story gets real

Several sheriffs made clear they don’t intend to stop communicating with ICE, and they don’t need 287(g) to pick up a phone. One described continuing to send daily arrest sheets. Another pointed to honoring detainers for a limited window and notifying ICE about release dates. They argue the legislature can block a specific contract model, but it can’t legislate away interagency communication or the practical desire to transfer custody of certain offenders.

The stronger their defiance, the more the debate shifts from “values” to mechanics: what cooperation remains legal, what cooperation becomes risky, and what cooperation creates liability for counties. If sheriffs push too far, lawsuits become the next arena, either challenging the state’s authority to restrict local agreements or challenging counties for holding people without appropriate legal basis. Either way, Maryland taxpayers could end up funding a long, technical fight over paperwork.

Street enforcement versus jail enforcement: the trade nobody wants to admit

Supporters of the ban often assume less 287(g) equals less immigration enforcement. That’s not guaranteed. When ICE loses a structured jail-based partnership, it can compensate with more agents in the community. Legal analysts have described that shift as a form of retaliation in other jurisdictions, but the label doesn’t change the outcome: more street operations can mean more public friction, more fear in immigrant neighborhoods, and more chances for mistakes that erode trust in all law enforcement.

Critics of the ban warn about “influxes” of criminals and gangs, and readers should treat any sweeping prediction carefully unless supported by specifics. Still, the public-safety question isn’t imaginary. Local jails exist to hold people already accused or convicted of crimes. If ICE can’t do structured screening there, the system may trade a controlled transfer for a less predictable hunt. Conservatives tend to prefer orderly processes over performative chaos, whichever side causes it.

Maryland’s next chapter: federal pressure, local liability, and a national template

Maryland now becomes a case study other states will watch because it shows how quickly a legislature can shutter formal ICE partnerships—and how quickly local officials can attempt to route around the closure. The immediate question is compliance: how counties terminate agreements and what they replace them with. The longer question is whether the federal government responds with policy pressure, funding disputes, or intensified enforcement that makes the state’s “values” victory look messier on the ground.

Gov. Wes Moore signs law banning Maryland partnerships with federal immigration authorities https://t.co/5AnDerVUt2

— The Washington Times (@WashTimes) February 17, 2026

The most revealing signal will come months from now, not from speeches. If jail intake becomes less informative and street arrests become more visible, Maryland residents will feel the trade-off in real time. If sheriffs keep cooperation alive through other means, the ban may become a symbolic win with limited practical change. Either outcome circles back to the same blunt truth: Congress wrote the problem, states are editing the margins, and communities live with the final draft.