On February 20, 2026, the Supreme Court delivered one of the most consequential blows to President Donald Trump’s economic agenda. In the consolidated cases Learning Resources, Inc. v. Trump and Trump v. V.O.S. Selections, Inc., the justices ruled 6-3 that the International Emergency Economic Powers Act (IEEPA) of 1977 does not authorize the president to impose broad tariffs. Chief Justice John Roberts, writing for the majority, was unequivocal: the power to lay duties and imposts belongs to Congress under Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution, not to the executive branch—even during a declared national emergency over drug trafficking or trade deficits.
The tariffs at issue—25 percent on most Canadian and Mexican imports, 10 percent on Chinese goods for the drug-related measures, and at least 10 percent (often higher) reciprocal tariffs on virtually all trading partners—had been generating hundreds of billions in potential revenue. The ruling instantly opened the door to refunds for importers and forced the administration to scramble for alternative statutory authorities such as Sections 232, 301, or 122. What made the decision especially stinging was the lineup: Roberts and two Trump appointees, Neil Gorsuch and Amy Coney Barrett, joined the three Democratic-appointed justices in the majority.
Trump’s response was immediate and personal. In a press conference the same day he called the decision “unfortunate” and “disappointing,” then escalated in subsequent remarks, labeling dissenting justices as influenced by “foreign interests” and hinting at structural change. “They want to pack the court—put 21 people on it,” he said. “Maybe they should do it. Maybe then it would be better.” Days later on Truth Social he floated the idea of rehearing the case. The rhetoric revived a debate many thought had been buried since Franklin D. Roosevelt’s failed 1937 attempt.
Five days after the ruling, on February 25, the Future of Freedom Foundation published a pointed analysis under the headline “Will Trump Try to Pack the Supreme Court?” The piece captured a distinctly libertarian unease: even a Republican president, frustrated by a court he helped shape, might contemplate the ultimate institutional weapon.
The historical parallel is impossible to ignore. In 1937 Roosevelt, furious that the Supreme Court had repeatedly struck down New Deal legislation, proposed the Judicial Reorganization Act. For every justice over seventy who refused to retire, the president could appoint an additional member—up to six new seats. The Senate rejected the plan 70-22 amid public outrage that labeled it a direct assault on judicial independence. Roosevelt lost the battle but ultimately won the war when two conservative justices switched sides in key cases, a shift historians still call “the switch in time that saved nine.” The episode remains the textbook warning against court packing.
Today the court stands at nine justices, a number Congress has changed seven times in history but has held steady since 1869. The current ideological balance is 6-3 conservative, with three Trump appointees (Gorsuch, Brett Kavanaugh, Barrett) anchoring the right alongside Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito. Average age hovers around 65; Thomas, at 77, is the oldest, Barrett at 54 the youngest. Modern justices serve far longer than their predecessors: average tenure has climbed from roughly 15 years in the mid-20th century to nearly 26 years today, amplifying the stakes of every vacancy.
Yet the February 2026 tariff decision proved that even a court with a Republican-appointed majority is not a reliable rubber stamp. The split among conservative justices underscored institutional independence over partisan loyalty. Trump now faces the same dilemma Roosevelt confronted: a judiciary blocking signature policies at a moment when public trust in the court is already fragile.
Approval ratings tell the story. Gallup has tracked Supreme Court approval at approximately 42 percent in recent surveys. Pew Research finds favorable views near a three-decade low, with roughly half the public holding an unfavorable opinion. The Marquette Law School Poll in early 2026 showed 44 percent approval and 56 percent disapproval nationally, though a striking bipartisan consensus endures: more than 75 percent of Americans across party lines insist that a president must obey Supreme Court rulings.
Court packing itself remains deeply unpopular. Even during the Democratic push in 2020-2024 to expand the court to 13 (or in some proposals 21) justices, support rarely exceeded 40 percent in national polls. With Republicans controlling Congress in 2026, any attempt to add seats would require overcoming the same political arithmetic that doomed Roosevelt—and would likely ignite accusations of hypocrisy after years of Republican criticism of Democratic proposals. Midterm elections loom in November; the political cost could be enormous.
The administration appears to have chosen a different path for now: rewriting tariff justifications under other statutes, pursuing emergency applications, and maintaining rhetorical pressure rather than launching a legislative overhaul of the court’s size. Trump’s comments read more as frustration and political signaling—daring Democrats to own the idea—than as a concrete blueprint.
Still, the question raised by the Future of Freedom Foundation lingers. The mere discussion of packing the court, once considered political poison, has become thinkable again. In 1937 the republic rejected the precedent and preserved the nine-justice norm. In 2026 the same norm stands, but the trust that underpins it is thinner. A president who built part of the current majority now finds even that majority insufficiently compliant. The episode reveals how quickly institutional friction can turn into institutional crisis when one branch feels cornered by another.
History’s verdict on Roosevelt’s gambit was clear: the attempt damaged his reputation more than it helped his agenda. Whether Trump will risk repeating that verdict remains uncertain. What is certain is that the tariff ruling of February 20, 2026, has reopened a constitutional fault line that the country has spent nearly ninety years trying to keep closed.
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