Former Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio, now 93 and long known for his hardline, controversial approach to immigration enforcement, is once again at the center of a national debate. This time, Arpaio claims vindication from a recent U.S. Supreme Court decision that, in his view, legitimizes the kind of racial profiling that marked his decades-long tenure as Arizona’s most notorious lawman. The ruling, handed down in early September 2025 in the case of Noem v. Vasquez Perdomo, has sent shockwaves through legal, political, and immigrant communities alike, reigniting fierce arguments over the boundaries of law enforcement and the meaning of equal protection under the law.
According to Slate, Arpaio declared in a recent interview, “I was just cleared by the Supreme Court. Obama and Biden went after me for racial profiling. … They went after me [and] the Supreme Court ruled in my favor last month.” He didn’t mince words about his past tactics: “I was using race as the reason to determine whether somebody was here legally or illegally.” In his eyes, the Supreme Court’s 6–3 decision has now put an official stamp of approval on such methods. “I was vindicated by the Supreme Court of all this shit,” he told Slate, summing up his sense of triumph.
But what exactly did the Supreme Court decide? The case, Noem v. Vasquez Perdomo, revolved around a weekslong crackdown by federal agents in Los Angeles, described in court documents as a siege marked by “rampant racial profiling and excessive violence by masked agents.” Individuals with brown skin—some of whom were U.S. citizens—were reportedly stopped, questioned, and sometimes assaulted by agents demanding to know their identity and immigration status. The lower courts had restricted these practices, but the Supreme Court, acting on its so-called shadow docket, lifted those limits in September 2025.
Justice Brett Kavanaugh, writing a concurring opinion, argued that immigration agents can consider “apparent ethnicity” as a relevant factor, so long as it is combined with other criteria such as language spoken or place of employment. “To be clear, apparent ethnicity alone cannot furnish reasonable suspicion; under this Court’s case law regarding immigration stops, however, it can be a ‘relevant factor’ when considered along with other salient factors,” Kavanaugh wrote. Yet, as Slate and Mother Jones both note, this reasoning closely mirrors the logic Arpaio used to justify his own policing tactics—ones that a federal judge had previously ruled unconstitutional.
Arpaio’s history is infamous. Serving as sheriff of Maricopa County from 1993 to 2016, he became a national figure for his aggressive campaigns against immigrants, frequently boasting about his use of federal 287(g) agreements that allowed local law enforcement to act as de facto immigration agents. His methods ranged from workplace raids and traffic stops to parading detainees in front of TV cameras. As he once said in court, “My program, my philosophy is a pure program. You go after illegals. I’m not afraid to say that. And you go after them and you lock them up.”
In 2013, a federal judge found that Arpaio’s office had systematically violated the rights of Latino residents through racial profiling, leading to a court order mandating sweeping reforms and independent oversight. The Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, under both Republican and Democratic successors, has struggled to meet the court’s benchmarks ever since. A recent audit revealed that the sheriff’s office overstated its compliance costs by $163 million over more than a decade—an astonishing 72% of claimed expenses had nothing to do with the original case, Melendres v. Arpaio, according to Mother Jones. Despite the $100 million-plus spent by taxpayers, the agency remains under court supervision, with full compliance still elusive.
Arpaio’s legal troubles escalated when he was found guilty of criminal contempt for ignoring a judge’s order to halt his racial profiling practices. However, in 2017, President Donald Trump issued a pardon, cementing a political alliance that has endured through multiple election cycles. “When he pardoned me, he let every cop know that he’s going to have their back,” Arpaio said, expressing gratitude for Trump’s support. Since then, Arpaio has attempted several political comebacks, including unsuccessful runs for mayor in Fountain Hills, but has consistently failed to regain elected office.
The Supreme Court’s recent decision has emboldened not only Arpaio but also federal agencies. Customs and Border Patrol officials have openly stated that their agents stop and detain people based on “how they look,” echoing the very tactics that landed Arpaio in legal trouble a decade ago. With Trump’s return to the White House, the use of 287(g) agreements has exploded—there are now over 1,000 such agreements nationwide, the highest number in the program’s history, as reported by Slate. Under the most aggressive version of the program, local police can proactively patrol communities, searching for people they suspect might be deportable—a practice that critics say opens the door to widespread abuse and discrimination.
Legal scholars and immigrant advocates have sounded the alarm over what they see as a dangerous erosion of civil rights. They argue that the Supreme Court’s ruling, though lacking a majority opinion, sends a clear message: racial profiling is now effectively sanctioned in the context of immigration enforcement. The so-called “Kavanaugh stops” have become a shorthand for this new legal reality, blurring the line between legitimate law enforcement and unconstitutional discrimination.
Yet, as Mother Jones points out, the 2013 ruling against Arpaio’s office remains in effect, and the sheriff’s office is still not in compliance with the court’s mandated reforms. The legal and moral battles over racial profiling in Arizona and beyond are far from settled. For many, the ongoing court oversight in Maricopa County is a testament to the enduring struggle to hold law enforcement accountable. For others, the Supreme Court’s recent decision represents a turning point—one that could reshape the landscape of immigration enforcement for years to come.
As Arpaio watches these developments unfold from his home in Fountain Hills, he remains a deeply polarizing figure. To his supporters, he is a symbol of tough, unapologetic law enforcement. To his critics, he is a cautionary tale of what happens when the rule of law is bent to serve prejudice. The Supreme Court’s decision may have given Arpaio the vindication he craved, but the debate over racial profiling—and the rights of those targeted by it—shows no sign of fading away.
In a nation wrestling with its identity and values, the legacy of Joe Arpaio and the Supreme Court’s shadow docket decision stand as stark reminders of the high stakes in the ongoing fight over justice, equality, and the meaning of American citizenship.
