The morning of January 7 began like countless others on Portland Avenue in Minneapolis, quiet and ordinary beneath a winter sky. Parents hurried children to school, commuters navigated snow-lined streets, and life unfolded with its familiar rhythm. Within hours, that sense of normalcy would be irreparably broken, and one woman’s death would ripple through a city already marked by unresolved trauma.
Renee Nicole Good, 37, was a mother of three, a wife, and a deeply familiar presence in her neighborhood. That morning, she had done nothing extraordinary—only what parents do every day. She dropped off her six-year-old son at school, exchanged a goodbye, and returned to her vehicle, expecting to head home. Instead, she encountered a massive federal law enforcement operation that would end her life and ignite a wave of grief, protest, and national debate.
Just days earlier, Immigration and Customs Enforcement had launched large-scale enforcement actions across Minneapolis. Federal agents flooded neighborhoods, many heavily armed, carrying out arrests as part of a sweeping operation. Word spread quickly, and residents began gathering, alarmed by the sudden presence of federal officers in residential areas.
Renee and her wife, Becca Good, were driving together when Becca suggested they take a detour. People were already assembling nearby, some to observe, others to voice opposition. According to Becca, they stopped not to confront but to stand in solidarity with neighbors who felt frightened and overwhelmed. It was an instinct rooted in community, not defiance.
What followed unfolded in seconds. Surveillance video and witness accounts show Renee’s SUV partially blocking traffic on a narrow, one-way street. Federal agents approached the vehicle. Inside were Renee, Becca, and their dog. Horns sounded. Whistles pierced the cold air. Tension rose rapidly.
Witnesses say Renee spoke calmly. At one point, she told officers she was not angry. But the situation escalated. An agent ordered her to exit the vehicle and reached for the driver’s door. Renee then attempted to reverse and turn away, trying to leave the scene.
Another agent moved in front of the SUV. Moments later, gunfire erupted. At least three shots were fired into the vehicle. Renee was struck behind the wheel. Her SUV surged forward and crashed into parked cars before coming to a stop.
“I heard three loud shots,” recalled Lynette Reini-Grandell, who was nearby. “Then people started screaming. Everyone realized what had just happened.”
Becca’s voice can be heard on video, raw with disbelief and terror, calling out that her wife had been shot. Witnesses described chaos, shock, and desperation as bystanders rushed forward, unsure how to help. A man identifying himself as a doctor attempted to render aid but was reportedly prevented from doing so.
Renee was eventually transported to a hospital, where she was pronounced dead from gunshot wounds to the head. She never regained consciousness.
The agent who fired the shots was later identified as Jonathan Ross, a veteran officer who joined ICE in 2015 and had served as a firearms instructor. Federal authorities stated that the shooting was an act of self-defense, claiming Renee attempted to use her vehicle as a weapon.
That account was immediately contested. State and local officials rejected the federal narrative, calling it misleading and inflammatory. Minnesota Governor Tim Walz sharply criticized the response from federal leadership, describing it as reckless and detached from reality.
Homeland Security officials confirmed the agent involved was taken to the hospital for injuries but declined to provide further details. Investigations were launched, but for many in Minneapolis, the damage was already done.
Within hours, Portland Avenue transformed into a place of mourning and resistance. Candles appeared where Renee’s vehicle had stopped. Flowers, handwritten notes, and photographs accumulated, forming a growing memorial that stretched along the sidewalk.
Over the next several days, thousands gathered at the site. Families arrived with children wrapped in blankets. Elders stood quietly, heads bowed. Organizers led chants demanding accountability. The crowd swelled, voices rising and falling together, unified by grief and anger.
For many residents, Renee’s death reopened wounds that had never fully healed. Less than a mile away, George Floyd had been killed more than five years earlier, an event that sparked global protests and forced Minneapolis into an ongoing reckoning with law enforcement and accountability.
“This city keeps reliving the same nightmare,” said one neighbor. “We’re still grieving the past, and now there’s another name, another family shattered.”
Becca Good broke her silence two days after the shooting, releasing a statement that focused not on rage, but on the woman she loved. She described Renee as someone whose defining quality was kindness, a person whose warmth filled rooms and comforted others without effort.
“We stopped to support our neighbors,” Becca wrote. “We had whistles. They had guns.” The line quickly spread across social media and news outlets, capturing the imbalance she felt in those final moments.
Becca spoke of the life they had built together and the hope that had drawn them to Minneapolis. They believed they had found safety, belonging, and a community that looked out for one another. That belief, she said, was shattered in an instant.
Renee left behind three children. Her youngest, only six years old, had already lost his father earlier in life. Now, Becca faces the task of raising him while carrying an absence that cannot be explained away.
Despite her grief, Becca’s message centered on values Renee lived by. She spoke about teaching their son that fear and anger do not have to define the world, and that compassion remains a powerful choice even after unimaginable loss.
As the days passed, the memorial grew denser. Artists left paintings. Clergy members knelt in prayer. Neighbors handed out coffee and food to strangers standing shoulder to shoulder in the cold. The atmosphere shifted between solemn reflection and urgent protest.
Some nights were peaceful, marked by silence and candlelight. Others grew tense as emotions boiled over. Police presence increased, and barriers were erected to manage crowds. Still, people returned, unwilling to let Renee’s death fade quietly.
Neighbors who knew Renee described her as vibrant and gentle, someone who greeted others with openness and warmth. They insisted she not be reduced to a headline or a political talking point.
“She was a real person,” one resident said. “She was our neighbor.”
As investigations continue, many questions remain unanswered. What is clear is that a routine morning ended in irreversible loss, leaving behind a family forever altered and a city once again confronting the cost of force, fear, and power.
For Becca Good, life now moves forward in fragments. In her words, the future she imagined with Renee is gone. Yet she remains determined that her wife’s legacy will not be defined by the moment of her death, but by the love, kindness, and community she embodied.
Renee Nicole Good’s story has become part of Minneapolis’s living history—etched into its streets, its memory, and its ongoing struggle to reconcile justice with humanity.
