On the morning of Jan. 7, a routine Immigration and Customs Enforcement operation turned deadly when an agent, Jonathan Ross, made a split-second decision to shoot a woman using her car as a weapon.
The incident unfolded in Chaska, Minnesota, involving ICE agent Jonathan Ross, who fired on a woman identified as Renee Good after she allegedly endangered officers. The motivations behind her actions remain unclear. Subsequently, a TikTok user, later identified as Sara Larson, posted a video revealing Ross’s hometown and implying his home address, leading to her termination from EastWest Acupuncture, where she worked as a certified massage therapist.
The spa issued a statement on their website, noting that Larson’s actions did not align with their values and that team members faced harassment and threats following the viral video, which has since been removed from TikTok.
The story begins with a harrowing moment for ICE officials on Jan. 7, when Renee Good reportedly used her vehicle in a manner that threatened their safety. Jonathan Ross, caught in a dire situation, had to act swiftly. Reports suggest such decisions are almost always made correctly by law enforcement in similar high-stakes scenarios, as the Western Journal explains.
Yet, the aftermath took a sharp turn when Ross’s identity surfaced online, not just due to the case’s severity, but because of an intentional act of doxxing. This wasn’t a leak; it was a targeted reveal.
The issue has sparked debate over the boundaries of public disclosure and personal safety for law enforcement officers. While some may argue for transparency, others see this as a dangerous overreach that puts lives at risk.
Enter Larson, the TikTok user behind the account @its.me.sara.g, who decided to broadcast what she called a “PSA” about Ross. Her video didn’t just name him; it pointed to his town and suggested his exact location by mentioning police presence outside a home.
“Jonathan Ross lives in my town, Chaska, Minnesota,” Larson declared in the clip. Her words weren’t subtle—they carried an edge of provocation, nudging viewers to take notice.
“They're protecting him; he's hiding out in his house,” she continued, dismissing the police explanation of community safety. If that’s not a call to action, what is? Urging people to “circle” a neighborhood feels less like activism and more like a reckless invitation to intimidate.
Larson’s video didn’t just stir online chatter; it led internet users to identify her as a massage therapist employed at EastWest Acupuncture. Her employer swiftly distanced itself from her actions. She was removed from the spa’s team webpage faster than you can refresh a browser.
EastWest Acupuncture didn’t mince words in their public statement, emphasizing that Larson no longer worked there. The fallout wasn’t just professional—some staff and their families endured threats and false reviews, a bitter side effect of viral outrage.
Let’s be clear: posting someone’s personal details online, especially a law enforcement officer’s, isn’t a harmless stunt. It’s a gamble with real-world consequences, and Larson learned that the hard way when her own identity became the story.
This saga raises tough questions about accountability versus safety in an era where social media can weaponize information. ICE agents like Ross face life-or-death decisions, and while scrutiny is fair, doxxing crosses a line into personal endangerment.
On the flip side, Larson’s intent might have been to spark dialogue about law enforcement actions, but her method was a misstep. Encouraging harassment isn’t justice; it’s a shortcut that backfires. EastWest Acupuncture’s ordeal shows how quickly collateral damage spreads when online actions spiral out of control.
