Residents in multiple U.S. communities have begun physically removing Flock Safety surveillance cameras from public spaces, escalating a grassroots backlash against automated license plate readers that has already produced lawsuits, state audits, and a federal court challenge. The camera maker, which operates in thousands of communities nationwide, has paused cooperation with federal agencies while facing allegations that its data-sharing practices violated state law. The conflict pits real crime-solving results against growing evidence that the technology enables mass tracking with limited oversight.
How Plate Readers Solve Crimes and Why That Is Not Enough
Flock Safety’s automated license plate reader cameras, known as ALPRs, scan passing vehicles and match plates against law enforcement databases in near real time. The technology has delivered tangible results: in Watertown, Massachusetts, local officials say the system was directly beneficial in arresting two individuals responsible for an armed robbery, while also assisting in a breaking-and-entering case and other investigations. For police departments with thin staffing and rising caseloads, the cameras offer a force multiplier that can close cases in hours rather than weeks, and chiefs routinely emphasize that stolen cars, wanted suspects, and missing persons can be flagged almost instantly.
Yet the same features that make ALPRs effective for police also make them effective for mass surveillance. Every plate scan creates a timestamped record of where a vehicle was and when, and those records accumulate into detailed movement histories that can reveal home addresses, workplaces, religious attendance, medical visits, and political activity. Flock’s own evidence policy sets a default retention window of 30 days with a hard delete afterward, and any extension up to one year requires approval by an elected official or governing body. Critics argue that even 30 days of blanket plate collection captures the routines of millions of people who are not suspected of any crime, and that the approval process for extended retention often happens in low-visibility meetings with limited public input or technical scrutiny.
Federal Data Sharing and the Illinois Audit
The sharpest official rebuke of Flock’s practices came from Illinois, where Secretary of State Alexi Giannoulias ordered a review of how state-linked ALPR data was being used. His office released an audit that found U.S. Customs and Border Protection accessed Illinois ALPR data through Flock’s platform, despite state rules meant to limit that kind of federal reach. The review sampled 12 agencies and concluded that existing safeguards were inadequate to prevent unauthorized federal access, prompting Giannoulias to shut off CBP’s connection and describe the incident as a violation of state law that exposed Illinois drivers to tracking they never agreed to.
That finding fed directly into a broader pattern of skepticism about how ALPR networks can be repurposed. Under pressure, Flock Safety paused its federal pilot programs and pledged reforms to its data controls. The company’s chief executive acknowledged what the Associated Press characterized as communication failures in explaining data-sharing arrangements to state officials and the public, and Flock announced new safeguards and filters on its platform. For residents already wary of the cameras, however, the Illinois audit confirmed a specific fear: that local surveillance tools installed in the name of neighborhood safety could quietly become part of a much larger federal apparatus, with no public notice and no meaningful way to monitor who is looking at the data.
Courts and Transparency Fights Shape the Legal Terrain
Legal challenges are now testing whether ALPR deployments cross constitutional lines. In Virginia, a group of residents sued over Norfolk’s citywide deployment of Flock cameras, arguing that the system amounted to warrantless tracking of innocent drivers. The U.S. District Court for the Eastern District issued a summary judgment opinion in Schmidt v. City of Norfolk, examining what the cameras collected, how long the information was retained, and how officers could query the database. While the court’s ruling turned on whether the program created the kind of prolonged, individualized surveillance the Fourth Amendment forbids, the case itself underscored that residents are increasingly willing to take their objections to federal judges rather than rely solely on city council assurances.
Transparency battles are equally fierce and often more immediate. In Oregon, civil liberties advocates sought basic information about where Flock cameras had been placed in Eugene and how the city was managing the network. After a public records request filed on June 12, 2025, was denied and an appeal was rejected, the ACLU of Oregon and partner groups filed suit, accusing city officials of improperly invoking security exemptions to keep the camera map secret. The complaint, detailed in an ACLU press release, argues that residents cannot meaningfully debate surveillance policy if they are barred from knowing where the devices are. When cities refuse to reveal even the locations of cameras, the secrecy itself becomes a driver of public anger, and in some communities it has helped justify direct physical action against the equipment.
Why Cameras Are Coming Down
The removal of Flock cameras by ordinary residents represents a distinct escalation beyond lawsuits and audits. In some neighborhoods, anonymous individuals have cut wires, unbolted mounting brackets, or toppled poles, leaving only jagged metal stubs where cameras once stood. While no verified national count of removals exists and no formal organization has claimed responsibility, the pattern reflects a gap between the speed at which cameras are installed and the pace at which legal and political oversight catches up. Cities can sign contracts with Flock, accept “free trial” deployments, and mount cameras on public poles within weeks, often with minimal public hearings. Meaningful review of data-sharing practices, independent audits of federal access, and judicial rulings on constitutional limits can take months or years, and in that vacuum some residents have decided to act on their own.
The physical destruction of surveillance equipment carries obvious legal risk, including potential charges for vandalism or interference with government property, and it does not directly resolve underlying questions about retention limits, cross-jurisdictional searches, or federal access. But it does force a political response. When cameras disappear, local officials must decide whether to quietly replace them, double down on enforcement, or pause and engage with the privacy concerns that motivated the removals. The Illinois audit, the Oregon transparency lawsuit, and the Norfolk constitutional challenge all show that institutional channels can produce concrete changes in policy and practice. The unresolved question is whether those channels can move quickly enough, and with enough public visibility, to convince skeptical residents that they do not need to take surveillance policy into their own hands, by tearing the cameras down.
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*This article was researched with the help of AI, with human editors creating the final content.
