By any surface measure, the Supreme Court’s July 1, 2024 decision in Trump v. United States appeared to deliver what former President Donald J. Trump had long sought: a sweeping declaration that presidents enjoy immunity from criminal prosecution for their official acts. The ruling, decided 6–3 along ideological lines, immediately delayed Trump’s federal criminal trials and made it all but certain that no jury would render a verdict before the November election.

Trump celebrated the outcome as a triumph. “Big win for our Constitution and democracy,” he wrote on social media. But beneath the political victory lap lies a more complex and, for Trump, potentially more dangerous legal reality. Rather than erecting an impenetrable shield around his conduct, the Court constructed a three-tier framework that has opened new avenues for prosecution—particularly at the state level—and shifted the legal battlefield in ways that could haunt Trump for years.

At the center of the ruling is a distinction that now dominates every case against him: the difference between official acts and unofficial ones.

The Court held that a president has absolute immunity for core constitutional powers, such as commanding the military or issuing pardons. It granted presumptive immunity for other official acts undertaken as part of presidential duties, though that presumption may be rebutted in limited circumstances. But for unofficial conduct—private, personal, campaign-related, or business activity—the Court was unequivocal: there is no immunity at all.

That third category has become the focal point of a rapidly intensifying legal effort by prosecutors across the country.

While the ruling delays Trump’s federal trials related to the 2020 election and his handling of classified documents, it has simultaneously emboldened state attorneys general and local prosecutors. In roughly a dozen states—including New York, Georgia, Michigan, Arizona, Nevada, and Wisconsin—officials are examining Trump’s conduct through a new lens, searching for actions that can be credibly characterized as private or campaign-related rather than presidential.

The result is a fragmented but formidable legal threat. Instead of facing a single federal reckoning, Trump now confronts the possibility of multiple state prosecutions, each turning on fact-intensive questions about motive, context, and function.

Consider the New York hush money case. Prosecutors there argue that Trump’s payments to Stormy Daniels were designed to influence the 2016 election by concealing damaging personal information. That conduct, they contend, was neither presidential nor governmental—it was private campaign activity. Courts so far have largely agreed. Presidential immunity, even under the Supreme Court’s expanded doctrine, offers no refuge here.

The Georgia election interference case presents a similar dynamic. Trump’s defense maintains that his post-election calls to state officials were part of his duty to ensure election integrity. Prosecutors counter that Trump was acting as a candidate seeking to overturn his loss, not as a president executing federal law. Under the Supreme Court’s framework, that distinction is decisive. If the conduct is deemed campaign-related, immunity vanishes.

The federal cases—particularly those related to January 6 and the classified documents found at Mar-a-Lago—are more complicated. Some actions, such as conversations with Justice Department officials, may fall within the realm of official conduct. Others, like organizing slates of fake electors or retaining classified materials after leaving office, are harder to characterize as anything but private acts. Prosecutors are increasingly tailoring their charges to isolate those vulnerabilities.

This shift has thrown Trump’s legal strategy into disarray. His lawyers had argued for a broad immunity doctrine that would halt prosecutions wholesale. Instead, they now must litigate immunity claim by claim, act by act, judge by judge. The defense burden has multiplied, not diminished.

Beyond Trump himself, the ruling carries profound implications for the presidency. Justice Sonia Sotomayor, in a sharply worded dissent, warned that the majority had placed presidents “above the law” for official acts, even in extreme hypotheticals involving abuses of power. Her concern was not merely theoretical. By insulating official conduct while leaving unofficial conduct exposed, the Court has created incentives for future presidents to aggressively characterize their actions as official, stretching the definition to its limits.

Civil liberties groups have echoed those concerns, arguing that presumptive immunity for official acts creates a zone of practical impunity. At the same time, critics worry that the absence of immunity for unofficial conduct could invite partisan retaliation by state prosecutors, transforming criminal law into a tool of political warfare.

This tension is already visible. Trump and his allies describe the state investigations as politically motivated “witch hunts.” Democratic officials argue they are enforcing the rule of law precisely as the Supreme Court instructed. Courts will now be asked to referee disputes that blur the line between governance and politics—an inherently subjective task.

The federalism implications are equally significant. Historically, the Justice Department has been constrained by internal policies against prosecuting sitting presidents. State prosecutors face no such limitation. As a result, accountability for presidential misconduct may increasingly depend on state institutions rather than federal ones, shifting power in ways the Constitution’s framers did not clearly anticipate.

The political consequences are unavoidable. Should Trump return to the White House, he could face ongoing criminal proceedings in state courts, an unprecedented scenario that raises unanswered questions: Can a sitting president be tried, convicted, or even imprisoned by a state? How would that affect governance? The Supreme Court has provided no clear guidance.

What is clear is that the immunity ruling did not resolve Trump’s legal jeopardy. It delayed it, fragmented it, and transformed it. The question is no longer whether Trump can be prosecuted at all, but which of his actions courts will deem private enough to permit prosecution—and whether the justice system can navigate that inquiry without collapsing into partisan chaos.

In the end, the ruling forces the country to confront a deeper issue: how much power a president should wield, and how much accountability the law can realistically impose. Trump did not create that dilemma alone, but his conduct has pushed it into sharp relief.

The Supreme Court has drawn the lines. Now the lower courts—and the states—must decide how boldly to enforce them.