Obama Family’s Sad Announcement New
Marian Robinson, mother of former First Lady Michelle Obama, has died at age 86, the family announced Friday. She passed away peacefully in the morning, according to a statement.
Former President Barack Obama also honored his mother-in-law online, calling her one-of-a-kind. “We feel lucky to have had her in our lives,” he posted. “We’ll spend our years trying to live by her example.” Born Marian Shields in 1937, she married Fraser Robinson III, a Chicago water department worker and WWII veteran. The couple raised Michelle and her brother Craig in a modest South Side home.watch below
Patel: Probe Into Trump, GOP Lawmakers Over Jan. 6 Weak On EvidenceThe FBI memo that initiated the Biden-era Arctic Frost investigation into President Donald Trump and hundreds of his allies over their activities related to January 6 lacked substantial evidence and clear legal justification, according to several former prosecutors and FBI agents who reviewed the newly released document and identified multiple deficiencies.
The investigation, code-named Arctic Frost, was initially led by an FBI supervisor who had expressed anti-Trump sentiments and was later taken over by Special Counsel Jack Smith.
The probe treated the effort by Trump’s allies to submit alternate electors to Congress during the 2020 election certification as a potential criminal conspiracy — despite similar actions in two prior instances of U.S. history not resulting in prosecution, Just the News reported.
According to the newly released materials, the FBI memo that launched the investigation in spring 2022 — around the same time Trump announced his bid for the presidency — relied heavily on interview clips from CNN as primary evidence “suggesting” Trump’s involvement in the alleged conspiracy, the outlet added.
House Judiciary Committee Chairman Jim Jordan said Wednesday that he believes the FBI memo authorizing the Arctic Frost investigation was legally flawed and reflected the same politicization and investigative overreach seen in the 2016 Russia collusion probe, code-named “Crossfire Hurricane.”
Jordan obtained the document from current FBI Director Kash Patel and told Just the News that both investigations targeted Trump based on weak evidence and partisan motives before ultimately being discredited.
“Sure looks that way. … and it looks like this was just the same old weaponization, same old political focus, focus on politics, going after your political enemies,” Jordan said during a wide-ranging interview on the Just the News, No Noise TV show.
“Same mindset that said we’re going to put the dossier in the intelligence community assessment, even though we know the dossier is garbage, we know there’s no underlying intelligence support,” he continued.
“That same mindset that was there in 2016 is the mindset we see now in 2022 with Arctic Frost, and then as it transformed into Jack Smith, special counsel, later in 2022—same mindset. So yeah, that’s what it sure looks like,” he added.
Smith has denied any wrongdoing and said he intends to present his side of the story. Jordan has invited Smith to testify before the committee, warning that he will issue a subpoena if Smith declines to appear voluntarily.
Documents released in recent weeks by Patel indicate that the Arctic Frost investigation was approved at the highest levels of the Biden administration, including by Attorney General Merrick Garland, Deputy Attorney General Lisa Monaco, and FBI Director Christopher Wray, with assistance from a lawyer in the White House.
The inquiry centered on efforts by Republican officials in several states to submit alternate slates of electors ahead of Congress’s certification of the 2020 presidential election on January 6, 2021.
The probe was later transferred from the FBI to Smith’s office, which issued subpoenas to hundreds of Trump allies.
Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa) on Wednesday released 197 subpoenas that Smith and his Justice Department team issued “as part of the indiscriminate election case against President Trump,” identifying more than 400 Republican groups and individuals whose information was sought.
Separately, the House Judiciary Committee disclosed that more than 160 Republicans — including many closely tied to Trump — were flagged for possible investigation under the Arctic Frost operation.
The opening electronic communication (EC) that launched what became a broad investigation into Trump associates was written and approved in April 2022 under the title “Requests Opening of New Investigation – Arctic Frost.”
The probe, designated as a “Sensitive Investigative Matter” (SIM), was authorized by then–Assistant Special Agent in Charge Timothy Thibault — who later left the FBI after his anti-Trump social media posts came to light — along with other senior bureau officials, including Steve D’Antuono, then the Assistant Director in Charge of the FBI’s Washington Field Office, and Paul Abbate, who was serving as the FBI’s Deputy Director at the time.
My 15-year-old daughter had been suffering from nausea and severe stomach pain, but my husband brushed it off and said, “She’s faking it
My 15-year-old daughter had been suffering from nausea and severe stomach pain, but my husband brushed it off and said, “She’s faking it. Don’t waste your time or money.” I took her to the hospital behind his back. The doctor studied the scan, then lowered his voice and whispered, “There’s something inside her…” In that moment, all I could do was scream.
The first time my daughter doubled over in pain, my husband didn’t even look up from his laptop.
“She’s faking it,” Greg said flatly from the kitchen table. “She has a math test tomorrow. This is convenient.”
My fifteen-year-old daughter, Ava, was curled on the couch with both arms wrapped around her stomach, her face gray with pain and sweat dampening the hair at her temples. She had been complaining for three days—nausea, cramping, stabbing pain low in her abdomen, then vomiting, then pain again. Not dramatic crying. Not a performance. Just that awful, breathless silence people make when they hurt too badly to keep talking.
I knelt in front of her. “Ava, look at me. On a scale from one to ten?”
“Eight,” she whispered. Then, after a pause: “Maybe nine.”
I turned to Greg. “She’s going to the hospital.”
He gave a short, disgusted laugh. “And tell them what? That she has a stomachache? Claire, do you know what an ER visit costs? She wants attention. Stop feeding it.”
That was Greg’s talent—taking real suffering and speaking over it until it sounded expensive, inconvenient, or manipulative. He had done it to me for years with smaller things. Migraines. Exhaustion. Panic attacks. If he couldn’t control it, he minimized it. If it cost money, he mocked it. If it belonged to Ava, he called it teenage drama.
I should have stopped listening to him sooner.
That night, Ava woke me at 2:00 a.m. with tears streaming down her face and one hand pressed hard against her side.
“Mom,” she whispered, shaking, “I really can’t do this anymore.”
That was enough.
I got her into the car before sunrise.
I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t even wake Greg.
The drive to Mercy General felt endless. Ava spent half of it bent forward in the passenger seat with a blanket over her legs, breathing in short, fast bursts. Twice I almost turned around from pure habit—from hearing Greg’s voice in my head telling me I was being hysterical, wasteful, stupid.
Then Ava made a low sound in the back of her throat like her body was trying to fold in on itself.
I pressed harder on the gas.
At the hospital, they took one look at her and moved fast. Much faster than Greg ever would have expected. Bloodwork. Urine sample. IV fluids. Pain medication. Then imaging. The ER doctor, a woman named Dr. Shah with tired eyes and a steady voice, asked careful questions: any chance of pregnancy, drug use, fainting, fever, injury, recent procedures.
Ava answered weakly. No. No. No.
I sat beside her bed trying not to let her see how frightened I was becoming.
When the scan came back, Dr. Shah didn’t speak right away.
She studied the screen.
Then studied it again.
Then she looked at Ava, then at me, then quietly asked the nurse to step out and close the curtain.
Something inside me dropped.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Dr. Shah lowered her voice and said, “There’s something inside her…”
For one second, my brain failed completely.
Then she turned the monitor toward me.
And all I could do was scream.
Because inside my daughter’s stomach—clear as day on the scan—was a tightly wrapped plastic capsule.
For a moment, the world stopped making sense.
I stared at the screen, trying to force the image into something familiar—something harmless. A cyst. A shadow. Anything.
But it wasn’t.
It was too defined. Too deliberate.
A small, oval shape. Smooth edges. Wrapped.
Placed.
“What… what is that?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Dr. Shah didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she asked gently, “Ava, sweetheart… has anyone given you something to swallow recently? A pill, maybe? Something unusual?”
Ava shook her head weakly, her face pale. “No… I don’t think so… I just feel sick…”
Her voice trailed off into a groan as another wave of pain hit.
I grabbed her hand, my own shaking now.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said, louder this time. “How could something like that just be there?”
Dr. Shah met my eyes.
“It doesn’t just happen,” she said quietly. “Objects like this are either swallowed… or placed.”
The word hung in the air.
Placed.
My stomach turned.
Things moved very fast after that.
A surgical team was called. More scans confirmed it—there was a foreign object lodged in Ava’s stomach, and from the inflammation around it, it had been there long enough to start causing damage.
“She needs it removed,” Dr. Shah said. “Immediately.”
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.
“We caught it in time,” she replied. “But we can’t wait.”
They wheeled Ava away before I could fully process what was happening.
One minute she was clutching my hand.
The next, she was gone behind double doors.
I was alone.
Alone with a plastic chair, a buzzing fluorescent light… and a thought that wouldn’t stop forming.
Placed.
My hands went cold.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Greg’s name.
For years, I had ignored the small things. The dismissals. The control. The way he decided what was “real” and what wasn’t.
But this…
This wasn’t something you could talk over.
When the surgeon finally came out, I stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly behind me.
“She’s okay,” he said first, and my knees nearly gave out.
“They removed it. No rupture, no internal bleeding. She’s going to recover.”
I covered my mouth, tears spilling instantly.
“Can I see her?”
“Soon,” he said. Then his expression shifted—professional, but serious. “There’s something else.”
My chest tightened again.
“We opened the capsule.”
I froze.
“And?”
He hesitated just long enough to make it worse.
“It wasn’t empty.”
The room tilted.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There was a substance inside,” he said carefully. “We’ve sent it to the lab, but based on initial appearance… it may be a form of concentrated narcotic.”
I stared at him.
“No,” I said immediately. “No, that’s not possible. She’s fifteen. She doesn’t—she wouldn’t—”
“I’m not suggesting she did this willingly,” he said quickly. “But we need to consider all possibilities.”
My heart was pounding now, loud and uneven.
Someone had put that inside her.
Not an accident.
Not a mistake.
Someone.
When Ava woke up, she was groggy, confused… but no longer in pain.
“Mom?” she murmured.
“I’m here,” I said, gripping her hand.
She blinked slowly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore…”
“I know,” I whispered, brushing her hair back. “You’re safe now.”
She nodded faintly.
Then, after a long pause, she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Mom… that drink… at Dad’s office…”
I went still.
“What drink?”
“The night he made me come with him,” she said, her voice weak but steady. “He said I should learn how business works… I felt weird after… like really sleepy…”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“When was this?” I asked.
“A few days ago… before I got sick…”
It clicked.
All of it.
The timing.
The dismissal.
The refusal to take her seriously.
My hands started to shake again—but this time, it wasn’t fear.
It was something else.
Something sharper.
I didn’t call Greg.
I called the police.
They arrived quietly. Listened carefully. Took everything seriously in a way Greg never had.
The hospital handed over the capsule. The lab results came back within hours.
It was drugs.
High-value. Precisely packaged.
Smuggled.
And my daughter…
had been used as a carrier.
Greg was arrested two days later.
Not at home.
At his office.
The same place he had taken Ava.
The same place where she drank something that made her “sleepy.”
The same place where someone had decided a fifteen-year-old girl was a safe place to hide something illegal.
I saw him once after that.
Through glass.
He looked smaller.
Not powerful. Not confident.
Just… exposed.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said, even then. “You always do.”
I stared at him.
“No,” I replied quietly. “This time… I finally see it clearly.”
Ava recovered.
Slowly.
Physically first.
Then emotionally.
There were hard days. Questions. Fear. Anger.
But she was alive.
That was everything.
Sometimes I think about that moment in the ER.
The screen turning toward me.
The words: “There’s something inside her…”
I thought that was the worst thing I would ever hear.
I was wrong.
The worst thing…
was realizing it hadn’t been a mystery at all.
It had been betrayal.
Living in my house.
Sitting at my table.
Calling itself her father.
And the only reason my daughter survived…
was because, for once—
I didn’t listen to him.
