Minneapolis Bribe: Juror Offered $120k in Feeding Our Future Case

In a quiet Minneapolis suburb, a gift bag stuffed with cash changed hands on a June evening last year, sparking a legal firestorm that still reverberates. Abdulkarim Farah, a 25-year-old from the city, admitted in court this week to orchestrating a brazen attempt to bribe a juror during a high-stakes fraud trial. The target, known only as Juror 52, didn’t waver, reporting the incident to authorities and exposing a plot that threatened the bedrock of the judicial process.

Farah’s guilty plea on April 2, 2025, before U.S. District Judge David S. Doty, marks the latest chapter in the sprawling Feeding Our Future scandal, a case that has already seen 45 convictions tied to a $250 million fraud scheme. What began as an investigation into misused pandemic relief funds has now unmasked a desperate bid to sway a verdict, raising sharp questions about the vulnerabilities of the jury system and the lengths some will go to escape accountability.

Court records paint a meticulous picture of the scheme. Farah, whose brothers were among seven defendants in the Feeding Our Future trial, didn’t act alone. Alongside co-conspirators, he zeroed in on Juror 52, tracking her movements and mapping her parking spot near the courthouse. On June 2, 2024, he drove Ladan Ali, another participant, to the juror’s home, filming as she handed over $120,000 with a promise of more if the juror voted to acquit.

The plan leaned on stealth and technology. Farah bought a screwdriver from a Target store to strip the license plate from Ali’s rental car, dodging potential police scrutiny. Encrypted messages flew between the group via the Signal app, which Farah later deleted from his phone after the bribe surfaced in court. Despite their efforts, Juror 52’s swift report to law enforcement unraveled the plot, leading to Farah’s arrest and, now, his guilty plea.

The Feeding Our Future case itself is a stark lesson in exploitation. Prosecutors say the nonprofit, meant to feed children during the COVID-19 crisis, became a front for siphoning federal funds into luxury cars and properties. Aimee Bock, its founder, and dozens of others fabricated meal counts across 250 fake sites, pocketing millions while kids went hungry. The juror bribery attempt, authorities argue, was a last-ditch effort to dodge the consequences of those actions.

Beyond Minneapolis, financial fraud in nonprofits isn’t new. Decades ago, the Foundation for New Era Philanthropy collapsed after promising impossible returns to donors, leaving charities reeling. Today, experts point to lax oversight and public trust as persistent weak spots. The FBI and U.S. Attorney’s Office, meanwhile, have a long track record of tackling such corruption, from the Abscam sting in the late 1970s to recent cases like the indictment of Oakland’s former mayor over waste contract kickbacks.

Juror bribery strikes a nerve because it hits at fairness itself. Legal scholars note that while rare, these incidents ripple outward, shaking confidence in verdicts. In Scotland, a 2018 case saw a juror jailed for taking cash during a drug trial, prompting calls for tighter safeguards. Here, Acting U.S. Attorney Lisa Kirkpatrick hailed Juror 52 as a hero, a citizen who stood firm when others might have buckled under the weight of six figures.

Law enforcement faces its own hurdles. Encrypted apps like Signal, prized by privacy advocates for shielding data, double as tools for criminals to plot undetected. The FBI’s Trojan Shield operation in 2021 flipped the script, using a fake app to nab global syndicates, but the cat-and-mouse game with tech persists. For every win, investigators say, new barriers rise, testing their ability to keep the system intact.

Farah’s sentencing looms, with no date yet set. His plea to one count of juror bribery caps a saga that’s already netted guilty verdicts for his brothers and others in the Feeding Our Future web. The case has spotlighted gaps, from jury protection to nonprofit oversight, that policymakers and courts will likely wrestle with for years. Advocates for judicial reform argue for measures like sequestration in high-profile trials, though costs and logistics complicate that fix.

For now, the story leaves a dual legacy. It’s a warning of how far some will stretch to bend justice, and a nod to those, like Juror 52, who hold the line. As Minneapolis reckons with this breach, the broader fight to shield the legal process from cash and coercion rolls on, one verdict at a time.