Supreme Court Hands Trump Major Victory In Foreign Aid Fight
The U.S. Supreme Court will allow the federal government to freeze more than $4 billion in foreign aid payments that President Trump tried to cancel last month using a rare “pocket rescission.”
The justices voted 6-3 to grant the Trump administration’s emergency appeal, which stopped a lower court’s order to release the funds that had already been set aside.
A spokesperson for the White House Office of Management and Budget said, “This is a huge win for restoring the President’s power to carry out his policies. Left-wing groups can no longer take over the president’s agenda.”
Most of the justices agreed that “the harms to the Executive’s conduct of foreign affairs appear to outweigh the potential harm faced by respondents.” The Post said that the AIDS Vaccine Advocacy Coalition, Journalism Development Network, Center for Victims of Torture, and Global Health Council are some of them.
The Supreme Court’s decision didn’t answer the bigger question of whether President Trump has the power to “impound” money that Congress has approved on his own.
Trump recently told House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) that he was going to cancel more than $4 billion in foreign aid. This included $3.2 billion in programs run by the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), $322 million from the joint USAID–State Department Democracy Fund, and $521 million in State Department contributions to international organizations.
The request, called a “pocket rescission,” was sent to Congress so close to the end of the fiscal year on September 30 that it would automatically go into effect, no matter what Congress did.
It is the first time in almost fifty years that a president has done this.
The funding in question had been designated for nonprofit organizations currently suing the Trump administration, as well as for foreign governments.
A U.S. District Judge named Amit Mehta Ali, who was appointed by Biden, said earlier this month that the administration could not keep the money without Congress’s approval of the proposal to cancel it.
Ali wrote, “So far, Congress has not responded to the President’s proposal to rescind the funds.” “And the [Impoundment Control Act] makes it clear that it is congressional action, not the President sending a special message, that ends the previous appropriations.”
The nonprofit groups that are fighting the Trump administration’s funding freeze said that the pocket rescission broke federal law and put important, life-saving programs abroad at risk.
Justices Elena Kagan, Sonia Sotomayor, and Ketanji Brown Jackson disagreed with the majority ruling on Friday.
Earlier this week, the Supreme Court agreed to hear a case on Monday that will decide whether President Donald Trump can fire members of the Federal Trade Commission without cause. This case could change the definition of presidential power and the independence of federal agencies.
The justices said in a short order that Trump could fire FTC Commissioner Rebecca Kelly Slaughter while the case is still going on. The stay that lets her go will stay in place until the court makes a decision, which is set for December.
The case asks if laws that protect FTC commissioners from being fired violate the separation of powers and if the court’s 1935 decision to uphold those protections should be changed. It will also look into whether lower federal courts can stop removals, like they did when Trump fired Democratic appointees.
Justices Elena Kagan, Sonia Sotomayor, and Ketanji Brown Jackson, who are on the left side of the high court, disagreed. Kagan wrote that the order effectively gives the president “full control” over independent agencies that Congress wanted to keep out of politics.
“He can now fire any member he wants, for any reason or no reason at all,” says the majority, even though Congress said otherwise. She wrote, “And he may do this to end the agencies’ independence and bipartisanship.”
One Word in the Rain
One Word in the Rain
The cemetery closed at five.
Everyone who worked at Maplewood Memorial knew this, and the sign at the front gate made it plain, and Gerald Finch — security, eleven years, keys on his belt and rules in his blood — enforced it without apology. Five o’clock. Not five-oh-one. Not five-fifteen because someone needed just a little more time. Five.
The rain had started around four-thirty, and by five it was coming down hard enough to turn the gravel paths into shallow rivers and fill the stone-lined gutters with fast brown water. Most visitors had already left. Most visitors had umbrellas and cars and warm places to be.
The old man did not.
He had arrived sometime in the early afternoon — Gerald had clocked him coming through the gate around two, a small, bent figure in a coat that had been decent once, maybe fifteen years ago, carrying a bundle of wildflowers wrapped in wet newspaper. He had gone to the same grave he always went to, in the east quadrant under the oak that had lost two major branches in last winter’s ice storm. Gerald knew the grave. Marie Elspeth Holloway, 1952–2019. Beloved. The old man came every week. Sometimes twice.
Gerald had never learned his name.
At five-oh-two, Gerald made his round.
The old man was still there — kneeling in the wet grass, head bowed, the wildflowers laid against the base of the headstone. Beside him, pressed against his arm, was a small girl. Six, maybe seven, in a yellow raincoat that was the brightest thing in the entire cemetery. She had her grandfather’s white hair in miniature, and she was watching his face the way children watch the faces of people they love when those people are sad — with total concentration, helpless and devoted.
Gerald cleared his throat.
The old man looked up.
“Visiting hours are over,” Gerald said. He kept his voice flat. Flat was professional.
“Just another few minutes,” the old man said. “Please. We came a long way.”
“Sir, I’ve told you before—”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Gerald reached down — he didn’t think about it, didn’t decide to do it the way you decide things, it was just the motion his hand made, trained by a decade of enforcement — and he took the wildflowers from the base of the headstone and dropped them into the nearest puddle.
“Visiting hours,” he said again, “are over.”
The old man stared at the flowers floating away in the brown water. The newspaper wrapping came apart. The stems separated. Yellow and white petals spread across the surface of the puddle and drifted toward the drainage gutter.
He had carried those flowers a long way.
His face did something that old faces do when the last small thing is taken — it didn’t collapse dramatically, it just came undone, quietly, from the inside out. His chin dropped. His shoulders curved inward. And he began to cry in the way old men cry, which is worse than any other kind of crying, because there’s no performance left in it, no hope that tears will change anything. Just grief, released.
The little girl pressed herself against him. Her small arms went around as much of him as they could reach.
“Grandpa, don’t cry,” she said. “We can bring more flowers next time. We can bring the purple ones she liked.”
“She liked all of them,” the old man managed. “She always said — she said it wasn’t the flower that mattered.”
“I know. You told me.” The girl tightened her arms. “It’s that someone brought them.”
Gerald took a step back.
He didn’t know why.
Something about the girl’s voice — the matter-of-fact tenderness of it, the complete absence of self-consciousness — had gotten into a gap in his professionalism and lodged there. He took a step back and looked at his own hands and the puddle and the floating flowers, and he felt the specific, nauseating discomfort of someone who has just understood that they’ve done something wrong.
He was still standing there, recalibrating, when he heard the sound behind him.
Heels on gravel. The particular cadence of expensive shoes moving fast.
He turned.
The woman was in her mid-forties, dark coat, silk scarf, umbrella she’d forgotten to open gripped in one hand. She had come from the parking area — Gerald had seen her car, a silver sedan, sitting at the far end of the lot for the better part of an hour. He had assumed she was on a phone call. He had assumed she couldn’t decide whether to come in.
She had been watching.
She was walking toward them now with the focused, unsteady movement of someone whose legs are working on instinct because the rest of them is somewhere else entirely. Her eyes were fixed on the old man, who still had his face turned down toward the puddle, toward the scattered flowers.
She stopped six feet away.
She looked at the white hair. At the bent shoulders. At the threadbare coat. At the small girl in the yellow raincoat looking back at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Grandpa,” the girl said quietly, “that lady is staring at us.”
The old man raised his head.
For three full seconds, neither of them moved.
Twenty-two years. Gerald didn’t know that — couldn’t know it — but it was written in the space between them, in the way the woman’s umbrella slipped from her fingers and hit the gravel and neither of them reacted to the sound.
Twenty-two years since a door slammed in a house on Calloway Street. Twenty-two years since words were said that both of them had spent decades deciding could never be unsaid. Twenty-two years of a silence so long it had become its own kind of relationship — the relationship of two people who had chosen absence over the risk of trying again.
The girl looked between them.
“Do you know that lady?” she asked her grandfather.
The old man’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The woman took one step forward. Then another. The rain hit her face and darkened her coat and she did not seem to feel any of it.
Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a word at all.
It was the word you say before you’ve decided to say anything. The word that lives so deep it bypasses the part of you that protects itself.
“Dad?”
The old man closed his eyes.
The girl looked up at the woman.
The woman looked down at the girl — really looked, for the first time — and something new moved across her face now, something that existed alongside the shock and the grief and the twenty-two years. Something that looked, cautiously and terribly, like the first movement of a question she hadn’t known she needed to ask.
“Who is she?” the woman whispered. “Who is this little girl?”
The old man opened his eyes.
The rain fell between them.
He said her name — the woman’s name, his daughter’s name, the name he had not spoken aloud in longer than he could honestly remember — and the sound of it hit her like a hand against the chest, stopping her breath, stopping her feet, stopping everything.
“There’s so much,” he said, “that I have to tell you.”
