Unintended Consequences: Fraud Crackdown in Minnesota is Hurting the Innocent
Updated
Minnesota, the North Star State, has long carried itself as a state that cares deeply for its neighbors, invests in its most vulnerable, and protects children and families in need. But recently, as allegations of massive fraud make headlines, that narrative has been exposed as extremely weak—not because corruption in the state is a myth, but because the response to corruption has been haphazard, punitive, and, in too many cases, utterly blind to genuine need.
At the center of the unfolding crisis in Minnesota stands Jennifer Larson, who, for more than two decades, focused on building a place where autistic children—starting with her own son—could receive the care they needed when no one else would step up. Without fanfare, Larson created a center that is now essential to hundreds of families. But now, caught in the fallout of a sweeping fraud crackdown, Larson is being treated as a casualty of someone else’s crime, and her story—grounded in perseverance and genuine care—is lost amid political noise and media spectacle.
Larson is a Minnesota mother who built a hugely successful center for children with autism because the system she trusted failed her own child. In 2004, Larson opened the Holland Center after seeing firsthand how inadequate services in Minnesota were for children like her non-speaking son. Today, what began as a desperate act by Larson to help her own child is now one of Minnesota’s most respected providers of intensive autism intervention services. But now, because of the massive corruption of funds in the state currently being exposed, those much-needed services are being threatened.
When Larson began Holland Center, she didn’t seek attention. Instead, she answered a need so profound that families with no other options lined up to receive care—specifically, one‑on‑one therapy and specialized programs that public schools couldn’t match. Parents like Justin and Andrea Swenson watched their nonverbal son make progress they had once feared unlikely. “In the school district, they can’t provide that for him; [at Holland Center] they give one‑on‑one therapy to Bentley,” Andrea said recently, articulating what countless families in Minnesota know to be true about the center.
Yet today, Larson finds herself in an unimaginable position: fighting not fraud, but a policy response borne of fear that, in the midst of a massive scandal of epic proportions, is wrongly treating legitimate service providers as criminal suspects. Recently, Larson learned—thanks to a funding freeze following reports of widespread Medicaid fraud tied to fake clinics, many of which authorities state were operated through Somali-run networks—that all of her Medicaid payments were frozen without warning under a new fraud system run by UnitedHealthCare. In an interview with the Daily Mail, Larson explained:
“That money pays my staff. I had to put in my own personal money just to make payroll this week. If this goes on for 90 days, we will close. And so will most legitimate autism centers in Minnesota.”
Without a doubt, this unjust response is placing the care of tens of thousands of children at risk. Specifically, Minnesota’s Department of Human Services is now subjecting autism centers, such as Larson’s, to pre-approval reviews before issuing Medicaid payments—a process that can delay reimbursements for up to 90 days. Thus, Larson faces a full quarter with no guarantee of funds for payroll, rent, supplies, or the continuity of services that so many parents depend on every day. Capturing the practical devastation these delays bring, she explained, “I have a $250,000 payroll every two weeks, how am I supposed to make that happen?”
Larson’s reaction is not an exaggeration—it’s a fact many centers across the state now face as they max out lines of credit or face closure because bureaucratic caution has overtaken essential care. Minnesota’s leaders, referencing investigations into Medicaid billing spanning across numerous programs while urging greater oversight, have defended these measures, insisting they are necessary to root out fraud. By early January 2026, fourteen “high‑risk” Medicaid programs, including autism therapy, had been identified, paused for audit, and then swept up in reviews that the state insists are aimed at protecting public funds. But the cost of this scattershot approach is devastatingly real: families watching services disappear, employees unsure of their jobs, and children at risk of losing progress they’ve fought years to achieve.
It is at this moment that the critique of this horrendous situation must be honest. To be clear, the leadership in Minnesota could have chosen to design a targeted, nuanced response to the massive Medicaid fraud—one that distinguished between actual perpetrators and the proven providers like Larson who serve the state’s most vulnerable. Instead, state leaders chose an across-the-board freeze-and-audit approach that blatantly punishes the innocent alongside the guilty. The intent may very well be fraud prevention. Nevertheless, the execution has been maligned and indiscriminate.
Under the leadership of Governor Tim Walz, the current criminal issues at hand involve a mix of long-standing vulnerabilities in Minnesota’s Medicaid and social services programs (dating back over a decade) that have escalated significantly during Walz’s tenure as governor (starting in January 2019). Yet Walz, who didn’t inherit the scandal, has ordered independent audits and called for broader screening of claims, insisting they will protect Minnesota’s programs from abuse. But in ordering such a broad and overarching reaction, the mechanisms of his government—which are inherently slow, unrestrained, and untailored—have inflicted substantial collateral damage that few elected voices have had the moral courage to acknowledge publicly.
The situation in Minnesota is not just about fraud. It is about whether a state with real families and real progress at stake can react to wrongdoing without tearing down the critical infrastructure of care. Some legitimate providers bulldozed by the state’s measures have even taken legal action against the Minnesota Department of Human Services for withholding payments, arguing that the state’s approach jeopardizes clients who rely on these services to live independently and thrive.
Sure, truth-telling headlines convey the enormous fraud. Still, they often forget to tell the story of the innocent organizations caught in the wake of the response, including all of the deserving children at Holland Autism Center and other similar noble establishments. Yes, it is progress that federal prosecutors have charged individuals in connection with autism billing schemes, including fraud involving millions of dollars and kickbacks tied to the recruitment of clients in some programs. But these charges are tied to the discovery of dozens of autism centers registered at single buildings with no children, staff, or real services. Why is the overarching state strategy to stop funding broadly rather than systematically isolate illicit behavior?
As the national conversation zooms out to frame the fraud as a larger political battle—with federal authorities estimating billions in dubious claims and Minnesota’s governor now facing a difficult political landscape—the real human cost must not be overlooked. Importantly, this is the lesson of the disaster currently facing upstanding organizations like Larson’s and others. When a government treats symptoms instead of causes, it risks hurting the very people it was designed to protect.
Parents of children with autism do not care about political spin or which party claims victory. They care whether their child’s therapist will still show up next week. They care whether progress made over the years will be lost due to unintended consequences and collateral damage. Indeed, parents care whether a state that promised support ultimately delivers it—or pulls it back broadly in the name of an easy-to-isolate crackdown.
No one currently caught in the crosshairs supports fraud. No one says bad actors in public programs should go unpunished. But when the solution punishes trust alongside fraud, compassion alongside wrongdoing, then we should ask whether that response is truly in the name of justice—or simply convenient politics that scapegoats the vulnerable while touting harsh rhetoric. Minnesota should be better than that—caring leaders like Jennifer Larson and families like those at Holland Center deserve better. Much better.
