A small group of officers stood watch as civilians gathered nearby. The civilians insulted the officers and began throwing snowballs, ice, and debris. In the chaos, one officer was struck and either slipped or was jostled, causing his weapon to discharge. Other officers, believing a firing order had been given, fired into the crowd. Five civilians were killed. Several others were wounded.
This was not Minnesota.
It was Boston, 1770. The officers were British soldiers guarding the Custom House. The civilians were colonists. No one is entirely sure whether the first shot was accidental or reflexive, but once it cracked, the situation no longer belonged to reason or rights. Other soldiers fired. Colonists fell. What history would later call the Boston Massacre was born not from a plan, but from fear, confusion, and a loss of footing.
Five people died that night.The legal arguments came later.The funerals came first.
What happened next mattered as much as what happened in the street. Patriot leaders quickly seized on the incident and turned it into a powerful propaganda tool. Samuel Adams and Paul Revere portrayed the event as a deliberate “bloody massacre,” stripping away the confusion, the crowd’s role, and the uncertainty surrounding the first shot. Engravings, pamphlets, and speeches simplified the story into villains and victims, using the deaths to inflame public anger and rally support against British authority. The narrative hardened. What began as a chaotic street encounter became a symbol, and that symbol helped push the colonies closer to open revolt.
The point is not really about British tyranny or colonial innocence. It is about how quickly a lawful presence, a hostile crowd, and a chaotic moment can turn deadly. It is about how fear compresses time, how judgment narrows, and how a single uncontrolled second can end lives. And it is about what happens next: how confusion hardens into narrative, how tragedy becomes a tool, and how facts blur, emotions stick, and a moment in the street is repurposed into something much larger than the people who fell there.
Today, we have the Constitution, which protects the right to protest through the First Amendment. That amendment guarantees freedom of speech and of the press, and the right of the people to peaceably assemble and to petition the government for redress of grievances. In practical terms, that means citizens may gather in public places, express opposition, chant, hold signs, and record government officials, so long as they do so peacefully and within reasonable time, place, and manner rules.
What the Constitution does not protect is obstruction, violence, or physical interference with law enforcement. The right to assemble is explicitly tied to being peaceable, and courts have consistently held that once a protest crosses into blocking arrests, surrounding officers, disobeying lawful orders, or using bodies or objects to impede government action, constitutional protection ends, and criminal law begins. The First Amendment protects expression, not interference.
That history lesson did not stay in Boston. It is on the move again.
Fast forward 256 years to another winter street, another crowd, another set of uniforms, and again, icy ground.
This time, the name is Alex Pretti, a federal employee working as an intensive care nurse for the Department of Veterans Affairs, with a permit to carry a gun, who carried that gun—and who came as a protester.
After the videos went viral online, Mr. Pretti was, depending on who you listened to, a nurse helping veterans, a peaceful protester, a man directing traffic in the middle of a law enforcement action, and a bystander trying to help a woman up after she was shoved by agents in the street.
Days later, new videos surfaced showing Mr. Pretti in a prior confrontation with federal agents: he is seen moving toward them, spitting on them, and then kicking out the taillight of their SUV as it is leaving a scene. The agents stop, take him to the ground in a brief struggle, and then let him go. Although the footage is not crystal clear, it appears he may have had a gun in the same position on his belt during this encounter, but the officers still released him, and reports say he suffered a broken rib and went to a hospital for treatment afterward.
About a week later, reports indicate that an encrypted group chat alerted members to an active federal operation at a specific location, and some accounts say Pretti was in that orbit. Whether the alert reached him directly through that channel or indirectly through someone else, the effect was the same: a call goes out, people show up. He responded.
This time, he arrived with a cell phone in one hand and a concealed pistol on his belt. Federal agents may have known who he was and that they had already encountered him. In one video, within roughly fifty‑five seconds of Alex Pretti walking into the middle of the street with his phone out, he was dead.
Just seconds earlier, two women protesters were on the sidewalk, a woman associated with a nearby vehicle was in the street, and six to eight federal agents were left standing in the roadway, likely trying to understand what had just happened. Every life in that moment was permanently altered.
In the case of Mr. Pretti, there is much we do not know. We do not have his video. We do not have body‑camera footage from the multiple agents. We do not know precisely how he learned the time or location of the operation. We do not know where the agents’ eyes were focused. We do not know what they could actually hear amid the whistles, yelling, and horns. We do not know whether every officer on scene had prior knowledge of his earlier altercation. There is a lot we do not know.
Legally and practically, this is where clarity matters. You have the right to protest, but when an officer determines that you are interfering with their duties and starts telling you what to do, the situation just changed. At that point, if the officer gives you a lawful order to move back, you have an obligation to move. When an officer tells you to stop, you have an obligation to stop. If an officer directs you to stop blowing your whistle because it is interfering with an arrest or other lawful duties, you are on far safer ground complying in the moment and contesting that order later in court, in the media, or at the ballot box. Refusing to comply during an active arrest, especially around federal officers, is exactly how you slide from protected protest into potential obstruction or resisting charges, and into a situation where officers are primed to see you as a rapidly growing threat.
For anyone thinking about going to these protests, especially while armed, that is the brutal takeaway. You can believe the operation is wrong. You can lawfully carry. You can film. But the moment you ignore clear commands and physically insert yourself into an arrest space with a gun on your belt, you are walking into felony territory and into a chaotic environment where one bad second can get you killed, even if the law later finds you were in the right.
I learned this decades ago.
When I was eighteen, I joined the Coast Guard. After basic training, I went to a ship and then to a shoot‑or‑don’t‑shoot school. It was one of the most nerve‑racking experiences of my life. We ran scenario after scenario under dark conditions, with confusion by design.
The rule was drilled into us relentlessly. You do not draw a weapon unless you see a threat. Not a hunch. Not fear. A threat.
In one scenario, I worked a nighttime roadblock. A man jumped out of a car and reached into his jacket. My brain screamed gun. I drew my weapon. He pulled out a wallet. I did not shoot him. But almost simultaneously, a woman emerged from another angle and shot me.
Training round.Lesson learned.
We were taught never to shoot until a weapon was pointed at us. In another scenario, we were boarding a ship and clearing compartments. I opened a door and was met instantly with the barrel of a shotgun.
I was dead.
Afterward, the instructor told us something I will never forget. In real life, situations never repeat. The rule that saves you in one moment may kill you in the next. You are not training for perfection. You are training to survive chaos.
Years later, during a concealed‑carry class, someone asked whether you should draw a gun to break up a fight. The instructor answered immediately. Never. You do not know who those people are. One of them could be an undercover officer. If you insert yourself with a gun, you may be shot, and the shooting may be legally justified.
Carrying a firearm does not give you authority. It gives you responsibility and almost no margin for error. It is not the law to use common sense, but it is the law of survival, and survival runs on instinct.
Television makes arrests look easy. Reality is different. Getting handcuffs on someone who is resisting is hard. Add icy pavement. Add winter clothing. Add gloves. Add noise so loud you cannot hear commands. At that point, you are not executing a clean arrest. You are managing a physics problem under stress.
While I was in Special Forces, after Columbine, the local sheriff asked us to help train his deputies. During an exercise, a sniper fired on a man being handcuffed because he thought he saw movement toward an officer’s weapon.
We were dealing with a disgruntled employee who was holding hostages. I usually played the bad guy. I told the building owner I would release him after negotiations started. Part of the procedure was to handcuff anyone leaving the building to prevent the criminal from escaping. Officers moved on him when he exited the building and were in the process of putting him in cuffs when a blank round was fired. A sniper from 150 yards away later said he thought he saw the man trying to get his hand on another officer’s gun.
That is how thin the margin is.One angle.One perception.One second.
Minnesota found itself in that margin.
Rather than cooling the situation, state leadership encouraged people to peacefully protest, document ICE operations, and push back against federal enforcement. Activist groups told people they were not protesters at all, but observers or documenters, urging them to film, alert others, and use whistles.
The lieutenant governor went further, telling people to “put your bodies on the line.” Important to who? Those are not words of symbolic dissent. They are a call for physical risk—maybe physical harm—by putting your body in the street to move a line they cannot move themselves.
Once leaders move from speech into rhetoric about bodies in the street, the line shifts. Words do not stay on podiums. They travel downhill into crowds.
A protester may follow a federal officer in public. They may watch. They may record from a reasonable distance. They may speak and criticize. Those actions are protected.
What they may not do is put a hand on a federal officer. Not a finger. Not a shoulder. Not a piece of gear. They may not block vehicles, surround agents, step into arrests, or physically interfere in any way. Once physical interference begins, the First Amendment is no longer the controlling issue. Obstruction is.
Courts have been clear. Federal officers are given wide latitude to complete their mission and protect themselves when faced with interference.
Observer.Documenter.Peaceful protester.
Those labels mean nothing once the line is crossed.
A badge is worn on an officer’s chest. People fixate on that piece of metal. They argue about the person wearing it. What they forget is what stands behind it.
Behind a badge is the full weight of the United States government. Courts. Prisons. Inter‑agency cooperation. Federal statutes. Career consequences. Use‑of‑force doctrine. The government’s monopoly on lawful force.
When people move closer, block vehicles, or physically insert themselves into an arrest, they are not engaging in dialogue; they are confronting the state. When state leaders encourage that behavior, they are not supporting protest. They are challenging the federal government directly. And the federal government does not absorb challenges. When diplomacy fails, it responds with law, force, and permanence.
Protesters think they are making a difference by blowing a whistle. What they are really doing is identifying who can be mobilized for funding, votes, and future actions. The government is taking notes, too.
The current anti‑government movement may have a sophisticated alert network, funding, and a chain of command. The government has something bigger: data. If you drive to a protest, you pass cameras and license‑plate readers. If you carry a smartphone, your location history can be obtained through warrants, including geofence warrants. Video is everywhere: security cameras, body cameras, livestreams, phone footage. Add facial recognition, tips, and transaction records obtained through legal process, and you get the modern reality.
When governors, state and local officials, or group leaders instruct you to get there with your cars, phones, and cameras, they are setting you up, so smile for the camera.
This is not new. This is not about Trump. These systems, techniques, and tactics have been evolving since 9/11 and were accelerated by the Patriot Act. They are the same kinds of tools deployed after January 6, including in investigations of Trump’s allies, and they are used in ordinary policing—from traffic stops to tracking cars and phones across a city, a state, or the country. And that only covers what we know. Governments do not advertise the full extent of their capabilities, but you can be sure agencies use them to expand their reach, reinforce those already in power, and remind everyone that “big brother” is always closer than you think.
The difference between intelligence and evidence is the moment of an event. In 2026, information moves at near the speed of light, and once a line is crossed, accountability arrives just as fast.
Not everyone gets good instruction in life. That is one reason I write now. The First Amendment matters. The Second Amendment matters too. But a gun comes with a hell of a lot more responsibility than slogans ever admit. You have to know where you are. You have to know the laws where you go. You need to know exactly what to do if you are pulled over. You have to know the law and be competent with the weapon you carry. But most of all, you have to use common sense. And you damn well better know what to do if you find yourself anywhere near a protest. Better yet, do not walk into something you may not be able to walk out of.
That is not a threat. It is a description.
People obsess over round counts and calibers. It misses the point. My cousin asked me why they shot him so many times. I told her, “Does it matter?” After one well‑placed bullet, your funeral has already started.
I do not think it matters whether you are killed by one round or ten. Dead is dead.
Some people today openly talk about wanting a “new revolution” or even a new Constitution, and it is not just rhetoric. They are frustrated with how the current system works and see crisis and chaos as an opportunity to rewrite the rules from the ground up. Some want to strip power away from Washington and lock in tighter limits on government; others want to overhaul institutions such as the Electoral College, the Senate, or the judicial system because they believe those institutions no longer reflect the people they govern. Part of the pressure comes from the growing gap between urban and rural America: big cities and small towns live under the same Constitution, but often want very different things from government. Some reformers argue the current system gives rural areas too much power, while others believe cities already dominate the culture and the economy. Different agendas, same instinct: take a bloody, confusing moment in the street and turn it into a symbol big enough to justify changing who holds power and how.
Every story I have told has the same lesson. Rights do not make moments safe. Good intentions do not cancel chaos. And sometimes, on slippery ice, in the noise, under pressure, right becomes wrong before anyone can stop it. That is not politics. That is physics, fear, and blood. In every age, there are people who see chaos and blood not just as tragedy, but as opportunity—a chance to push for a “second revolution” or a new constitutional order. They turn messy human moments into clean symbols, just as Patriot leaders did after the Boston Massacre. The hard question is whether any single killing, any protest that flirts with that edge, is ever really worth the price paid by the person who dies. Sometimes, you can be right and still be wrong.
Boston taught us this once already: when chaos takes over the street, rights become footnotes. History does not remember who was right in the moment, who had the biggest sign, or who blew the loudest whistle. It remembers who was left standing when the noise stopped.
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Author’s note
It was not my intention to keep writing about current events, but in the last few pieces the stakes have been high and the emotions even higher. I was working on a new article about money, and it shifted into this because the urgency felt greater—and because if a few people share this, it may help them see more at play than video clips and talking points.
When the first videos and reactions to Alex Pretti’s death appeared, I found myself immediately on the offensive on his behalf. I also heard the government’s talking points and assumed the truth was probably somewhere in the middle. As more information has come out, a fuller picture is emerging: a man who seems by all accounts to have been kind and committed to service, but also someone with a fire in him that, in this moment, turned into anger, into a violent protester, and maybe into a man looking for a fight. That mix is not unique to him; a lot of us live on that same edge without ever stepping over it.
Writing about fast‑moving events as a one‑man shop is hard. That is not your problem; it is mine. I write for myself and am grateful to put in the work and share it. It is hard for all of us to make sense of an incomplete picture in real time, in a world of biased reporting, fluid information, and a sad state of affairs where what you “know” at noon may be wrong by dinnertime. I do my best to be fair, to correct my own assumptions as facts develop, to be both educational and entertaining, and to keep the focus on what readers can actually learn and use.
Thank you for sticking with me through that. Your time, attention, and patience mean more than you know.
I would love to hear your thoughts!
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Thank you!
Jim (D-Minus) Jones
