When Justice Becomes a Weapon: The 5 Cases That Will Expose Trump in 2025

2026-06-21 00:20:40

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The Day Trump Downplayed the Capitol Attack

On January 20, 2025, just hours after being sworn in for his second term, Donald Trump signed one of the most controversial executive orders in modern American history. With the stroke of a pen, he granted a general amnesty to more than a thousand people convicted or facing charges for their participation in the January 6, 2021, Capitol riot. Not just the peaceful protesters who had strayed into the halls of the legislative branch. No, Trump pardoned individuals convicted of assaulting police officers, breaking windows, and threatening elected officials. He even released several members of the Proud Boys and the Oath Keepers who had been convicted of seditious conspiracy—the gravest crime one can commit against American democracy.

This decision sent a chilling message across the country. It told the law enforcement officers who had defended the Capitol that day that their sacrifice did not matter. It told the rioters that political violence was not only tolerated but rewarded. It transformed convicted criminals into martyrs, and seditious individuals into patriots. The presidential executive order did not merely pardon the convicts; it also ordered the Attorney General to dismiss all pending prosecutions related to January 6. Hundreds of cases painstakingly built by federal investigators, thousands of hours of work, courageous testimonies from injured police officers—all of it swept aside with a wave of the hand.

I watched the live footage from January 6, 2021. I saw those men and women storming the Capitol; I heard their shouts; I saw the fear in the eyes of the lawmakers barricaded inside. And now, four years later, I’m told these people are heroes. I’m told they were defending democracy by attacking the very heart of democracy. Cynicism has its limits, but apparently not for this administration. What revolts me the most isn’t even the amnesty itself. It’s the lie that goes along with it—this rewriting of history in real time.

The Consequences of Systematic Impunity

The impact of this mass amnesty extends far beyond the individual fates of those pardoned. It has set a dangerous precedent, establishing that a president can protect those who commit acts of violence in his name. Constitutional law experts immediately highlighted the terrifying implications of this decision. If a president can pardon insurrectionists, what will prevent future political violence? Why would radical supporters hesitate to resort to force if they know that a presidential amnesty awaits them at the end of the road? This question is not theoretical; it is existential for American democracy.

The families of police officers injured or traumatized during the Capitol assault have expressed their disgust and sense of betrayal. Some officers have publicly spoken of their sense of abandonment, explaining that they risked their lives to defend institutions that the president himself seemed to despise. The statistics speak for themselves: more than 140 police officers were injured that day, some seriously. Several developed post-traumatic stress disorder. At least four officers took their own lives in the months following the attack. And now, their attackers walk free, celebrated as heroes by the President of the United States. The January 6 amnesty is not merely an act of presidential clemency; it is a legitimization of political violence, an encouragement to repeat such acts.

When I was a child, I was taught that justice is blind. That it makes no distinction between the rich and the poor, between the powerful and the weak. It was a lie, of course, but it was a necessary lie, an ideal to strive toward. Today, even that lie has disappeared. Justice is no longer blind; it blatantly favors those in power. And we’re supposed to accept this as normal, as inevitable. I refuse.

Eric Adams: Corruption as a Bargaining Chip

A Democratic Mayor Caught in Trump’s Net

The Eric Adams case perfectly illustrates how the Trump administration exploited the judicial system to secure political favors. The mayor of New York, a Democrat, was indicted in September 2024 by the Biden-era Department of Justice on corruption charges involving illegal campaign contributions and benefits received from the Turkish government. The case was strong, built on months of investigation, wiretaps, and financial documents. Adams faced a substantial prison sentence if convicted.

But everything changed when Trump returned to power in January 2025. Suddenly, the Department of Justice asked the judge to temporarily suspend the prosecution of Adams. Not to drop the charges permanently—note this well—just to put them on hold. This maneuver was transparent: it gave the Trump administration enormous leverage over the mayor of the country’s largest city. If Adams cooperated on immigration issues—if he facilitated ICE deportation operations in New York—perhaps the charges would be dropped. If he resisted, the trial would resume. It was institutional blackmail, extortion disguised as a legal proceeding.

Eric Adams’s corruption was likely real. I’m not here to defend him on the merits of the case. But what happened next had nothing to do with justice. It was pure politics, a cynical manipulation of the criminal justice system. And the most outrageous thing is that no one is even trying to hide it. Emil Bove, Trump’s former lawyer turned prosecutor, appeared before the judge with this grotesque request without even attempting to conceal the political motivations. It was an obscene spectacle, a travesty of justice.

The Prosecutors’ Rebellion and the Judge’s Rejection

The request to temporarily suspend the prosecution of Adams sparked an unprecedented crisis within the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Emil Bove, Trump’s former personal attorney appointed to a key position in the Department of Justice, had taken charge of the Adams case. But the career prosecutors who had built the case refused to follow his instructions. They realized that their professional integrity was at stake, and that their participation in this farce would permanently tarnish their reputations. In April 2025, several prosecutors resigned en masse rather than lend their names to this political manipulation. Their resignation letters, made public, are damning documents revealing the state of the Department of Justice under Trump.

Judge Dale Ho, appointed by President Biden, was not fooled either. In a scathing ruling handed down in April 2025, he rejected the government’s request and dismissed the case once and for all. His judgment, with its brutal clarity, is worth quoting: “Everything here reeks of horse-trading.” ” Judge Ho explained that he could not allow his court to become an instrument of political pressure, that justice could not be suspended and reinstated at the whim of negotiations between a president and a mayor. This decision was a monumental slap in the face for the Trump administration, a reminder that some judges still took their independence seriously. Eric Adams thus escaped prosecution, not because he was innocent, but because the government had so thoroughly corrupted the process that the judge had no choice but to dismiss the case entirely.

The prosecutors who resigned are unsung heroes. No one knows their names; no one will erect statues in their honor. But they did something rare and precious: they said no. In a system where saying yes is always easier—where careers and financial security depend on obedience—they chose integrity. I think of them often, and of what they sacrificed. And I wonder if I would have had their courage.

Sidney Reid and Sean Dunn: When the Juries Say No

The Story of the Sandwich That Defied an Empire

Among all the absurd cases pursued by Trump’s Department of Justice in 2025, Sean Dunn’s case will go down in history as a symbol of popular resistance in the face of abuse of power. Dunn, an ordinary citizen of Washington, D.C., unwittingly became a national hero after throwing a sandwich at an ICE agent during an immigration raid. The gesture was spontaneous, almost comical in its absurdity. But for the Trump administration, it was an intolerable assault on a representative of federal authority. The government decided to make an example of Dunn, to show that any resistance, even symbolic, would be crushed.

The Department of Justice initially attempted to secure an indictment by a grand jury on serious assault charges. But something extraordinary happened: the grand jury refused to indict. Not just once, but repeatedly. The ordinary citizens who made up that grand jury reviewed the evidence, listened to the prosecutors’ arguments, and decided that prosecuting a man for throwing a sandwich was a grotesque misuse of the judicial system. Humiliated but stubborn, the government then charged Dunn with minor misdemeanor charges that did not require grand jury approval. The case went to trial before a jury in November 2025.

Sean Dunn is no revolutionary. He is not a longtime activist, nor a seasoned militant. He’s just a guy who’d had enough, who saw something that outraged him, and who reacted. His weapon? A sandwich. His crime? Daring to express his anger. And for that, the U.S. government mobilized considerable resources to destroy him. Think about it for a moment. While violent criminals from January 6 were receiving presidential pardons, a sandwich-thrower was dragged through the courts. The irony would be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

Sidney Reid and the Triple Resistance of the Juries

Sidney Reid’s story is even more remarkable. Accused of “forcefully pushing” an FBI agent’s hand against a wall during a confrontation, Reid faced relentless legal persecution. The government presented its case to a grand jury in Washington, D.C., seeking an indictment for assault. The grand jury refused. Prosecutors returned with the same case, slightly modified. The grand jury refused a second time. Incredibly, the government tried a third time, and the grand jury refused a third time. Three different grand juries, composed of ordinary citizens, reviewed the evidence and concluded that this case did not warrant further action.

But Trump’s Department of Justice does not take defeat lying down. As with Dunn, prosecutors bypassed the grand jury and charged Reid with minor misdemeanor offenses. The case went to trial, and in November 2025, a trial jury acquitted Reid of all charges. In an op-ed published on MS NOW after his acquittal, Reid wrote words that resonate like a manifesto: “This is our country. We are bigger and stronger than this administration. ” His case, like Dunn’s, demonstrates that despite all the government’s efforts to intimidate and punish, ordinary citizens serving on juries have retained their common sense and their sense of justice. They saw through the propaganda, they recognized the abuse of power, and they said no.

Juries are the last line of defense for democracy. When politicians lie, when prosecutors are corrupt, when judges cave in, the juries remain. Twelve ordinary citizens who examine the evidence and decide. And in 2025, time and again, these juries refused to play along. They saw the Reid and Dunn cases for what they were: pathetic attempts to intimidate dissent. And they said no. Three times for Reid. Once for Dunn. Every refusal was a victory; every acquittal was a slap in the face to authoritarianism.

James Comey and Letitia James: Revenge as a Political Strategy

Two Jameses in the President’s Crosshairs

While the Reid and Dunn cases illustrate the absurdity of the system, the prosecutions of James Comey and Letitia James reveal its sheer malice. These two figures have nothing in common except their last name and the fact that they defied Donald Trump. James Comey, the former FBI director fired by Trump in 2017, had overseen the investigation into the ties between the Trump campaign and Russia. Letitia James, the New York State Attorney General, had sued Trump and his organization for financial fraud, securing a devastating civil judgment. Both had been on the president’s blacklist for years. In 2025, Trump finally had the opportunity to exact his revenge.

The Department of Justice indicted Comey on obscure charges related to alleged leaks of classified information—allegations that had already been investigated and dismissed by investigators under the previous administration. Letitia James was charged with mortgage fraud, a financial crime that seemed to come out of nowhere. Both indictments were secured by Lindsey Halligan, a former personal attorney of Trump’s with no experience in criminal prosecution, whom the president had installed as special counsel. Halligan had secured these indictments against the advice of career prosecutors at the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of Virginia, whose chief had been ousted for refusing to pursue these cases.

Lindsey Halligan is the face of legal corruption. A defense attorney turned prosecutor—not because she had the skills or experience, but because she was loyal. Her appointment sent a message: in Trump’s Department of Justice, loyalty counts for more than competence, and obedience more than integrity. And the cases she pursued were so transparently politically motivated that even conservative judges were forced to dismiss them.

The Legal Collapse and the Government’s Obstinacy

In November 2025, a federal judge dismissed both indictments, ruling that Lindsey Halligan’s appointment as special prosecutor was unlawful. The judge explained that Halligan lacked the constitutional authority to prosecute these cases and that she had been appointed in violation of established procedures. It was a legal victory for Comey and James, but a fragile one. The Department of Justice immediately announced its intention to appeal the decision and attempt to secure indictments through legal means.

Since then, the government has twice attempted to have Letitia James indicted again by a grand jury. Both attempts failed. The grand juries, once again, refused to endorse this witch hunt. Meanwhile, the Comey case is bogged down in procedural battles over what evidence the government can use. Despite these repeated failures, the Trump administration persists. The Department of Justice has filed an appeal seeking to reinstate the original charges and Halligan’s appointment. If this appeal succeeds, the cases would return to court, and Comey and James would have to defend themselves against charges they have already defeated once. This is judicial harassment in its purest form—a use of the criminal justice system as an instrument of political harassment.

There is something deeply troubling about the government’s obstinacy. Even after judges have dismissed the cases, even after grand juries have refused to indict, they keep going. They appeal, they try again, they look for new angles of attack. This is no longer justice; it is persecution. And the message is clear: if you defy Trump, he will pursue you for the rest of your life; he will mobilize all the resources of the state to break you. It doesn’t matter if you’re innocent; it doesn’t matter if the courts rule in your favor. The punishment is the process itself.

Kilmar Abrego Garcia: The Kafkaesque Nightmare

An Illegal Deportation to Hell

The case of Kilmar Abrego Garcia is perhaps the most shocking of all, the one that best reveals the systematic cruelty of the Trump administration. Abrego Garcia, a Salvadoran immigrant living legally in the United States, was arrested in March 2025 during an ICE operation. Without a trial, without a conviction, without even a formal charge, he was deported to El Salvador and locked up in the Cecot Terrorism Detention Center, a high-security prison reserved for the most dangerous gang members. Cecot is internationally known for its inhumane conditions: tiny cells, total isolation, and endemic violence. It is a place where people are sent to be broken, not rehabilitated.

Abrego Garcia’s deportation was illegal, a fact that the U.S. Supreme Court confirmed by ordering his immediate return. But the Trump administration resisted this order for months, leaving Abrego Garcia to languish in Cecot while his lawyers fought to bring him back. When he was finally brought back to the United States in June 2025, it was not out of respect for the law, but because the government had prepared criminal charges to greet him. The charges? Vague allegations related to his immigration status—crimes that didn’t exist before his deportation. It was pure revenge, punishment for daring to appeal his deportation.

Imagine this. You’re living legally in a country; you have a family, a job, a life. One day, federal agents arrest you. Without explanation, without a trial, you’re put on a plane and sent to a prison for terrorists in a country you fled from. You haven’t committed any crime. You haven’t been convicted of anything. But there you are, in a cell, surrounded by violent gang members, not knowing if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s what happened to Kilmar Abrego Garcia. In the United States of America. In 2025.

The legal battle continues

Since his forced return to the United States, Abrego Garcia has been fighting on two fronts. On one hand, he is facing criminal charges that he claims are motivated by revenge—a form of vindictive prosecution prohibited by the Constitution. On the other, he is fighting a new attempt at deportation. In December 2025, Judge Paula Xinis, who had initially ordered his return to the United States, ordered his release from immigration detention, concluding that the government had no legal basis to hold him. In her ruling, Judge Xinis wrote with a touch of exasperation: “They may eventually get it right, but they haven’t today.”

This sentence perfectly sums up the Trump administration’s approach toward Abrego Garcia and so many others. The government does not care about following legal procedures, respecting constitutional rights, or treating people with dignity. It acts first—illegally if necessary—and deals with the legal consequences later. And even when the courts rule against it, even when judges order corrections, the government persists in its illegal actions. The Abrego Garcia case is not over. He remains free for the time being, but the criminal charges continue, and the government is still seeking to deport him. His ordeal, which has lasted nearly a year, could continue for years to come. This is the price he pays for defying the system, for daring to assert his rights.

Kilmar Abrego Garcia’s story haunts me. Not just because of what he’s been through—though that alone is horrible enough. No, what haunts me is the banality of his case. He is not the only one. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of others like him—people whose names will never make the headlines, whose stories will never be told. People crushed by a bureaucratic machine that sees them only as numbers, statistics, problems to be eliminated. And we let it happen. We look the other way.

The Repeated Failures of Grand Juries: A Wake-Up Call

Chicago and Washington: Citizens Say No

Beyond the five main cases, 2025 was marked by a series of humiliating defeats for the Department of Justice before grand juries across the country. In Chicago, Washington, D.C., and other cities, grand juries repeatedly refused to indict individuals accused of resisting the Trump administration’s immigration operations. These refusals are not statistical anomalies; they represent a systematic rejection of the government’s policy of criminalizing dissent. Grand juries, composed of ordinary citizens selected at random, are supposed to serve as a buffer between state power and individual rights. In 2025, they fulfilled this role with remarkable determination.

The most striking cases involved charges of assault against federal agents during ICE operations. The government presented videos, agent testimonies, and medical reports. But the grand juries reviewed this evidence and concluded that the prosecutions were disproportionate, that the charges were exaggerated, and that the government was using the criminal justice system to intimidate immigrant communities. In Chicago, a sanctuary city that had resisted Trump’s immigration policies, grand juries were particularly reluctant to indict. The Department of Justice labeled these refusals “political obstruction,” but the reality is simpler: citizens did not believe the charges.

Grand juries are supposed to be a formality. Prosecutors present their evidence, and jurors almost always go along with it. It’s said that a skilled prosecutor could get a grand jury to indict a sandwich. But in 2025, something changed. Citizens began asking questions, scrutinizing the motives behind the prosecutions, and refusing to serve as tools of political repression. This is an extraordinary development—a sign that civic consciousness is not dead.

The Political Cost of Relentless Prosecution

These repeated failures before grand juries took a considerable political toll on the Trump administration. Every refusal to indict was reported in the media; every acquittal became a symbol of resistance. The administration attempted to downplay these defeats, claiming they were due to “politicized” juries in Democratic cities. But this explanation does not hold up: even in more conservative jurisdictions, grand juries showed a growing reluctance to approve prosecutions that appeared to be motivated by politics rather than justice. The message was clear: American citizens, regardless of their political affiliation, did not want their judicial system to become a tool of repression.

The Department of Justice responded to these setbacks by bypassing grand juries whenever possible, pursuing minor misdemeanor charges that did not require their approval. But this strategy has its limits. Trials before trial juries also resulted in acquittals, as in the Reid and Dunn cases. And each acquittal reinforced the perception that the government was pursuing baseless cases, wasting public resources to satisfy presidential vendettas. By the end of 2025, the Department of Justice’s track record in these politically sensitive cases was disastrous: more defeats than victories, more humiliations than triumphs.

There is a poetic justice to these failures. The Trump administration thought it could use the judicial system as a weapon, but it discovered that the system had its own defenses. Juries—those groups of ordinary citizens who are often underestimated—were the fly in the ointment. They slowed down, complicated, and sometimes completely derailed the government’s plans. This is not a total victory, far from it. But it is a reminder that power has its limits, that authoritarianism cannot control everything.

Emil Bove and Lindsey Halligan: The Faces of Corruption

From Defenders to Persecutors

If this judicial year had faces, they would be those of Emil Bove and Lindsey Halligan. These two former defense attorneys for Donald Trump were transformed into federal prosecutors—not because they had the necessary experience or qualifications, but because they had proven their absolute loyalty to the president. Bove, who had defended Trump in several criminal cases, was appointed to a high-level position at the Department of Justice. Halligan, who had never prosecuted a criminal case in her life, was installed as a special prosecutor with the authority to secure indictments. Their appointments sent a clear signal: in Trump’s Department of Justice, competence mattered less than loyalty.

Bove took charge of the Eric Adams case, attempting to turn a corruption investigation into a political tool. Halligan secured indictments against James Comey and Letitia James, despite opposition from career prosecutors. Both acted with apparent impunity, disregarding ethical standards, circumventing established procedures, and turning the Department of Justice into an extension of the Oval Office. Their actions sparked mass resignations among career prosecutors, protests from former Justice Department officials, and condemnations from bar associations. But they pressed on, protected by the president and encouraged by his administration.

Bove and Halligan are symbols. They represent the transformation of a once-respected institution into an instrument of personal vengeance. They are living proof that the Department of Justice under Trump no longer has anything to do with justice. It has become a department of loyalty, a department of vengeance, a department of corruption. And the saddest part is that they don’t even seem aware of the shame they carry. They appear in court with their bogus cases and fabricated charges, and they do so without a shred of embarrassment.

The Toxic Legacy

In December 2025, Emil Bove was appointed a federal judge, a reward for his service to the Trump administration. This appointment was met with horror by the legal community. A man who had spent the year pursuing politically motivated cases would now sit on the bench, adjudicating other cases, and rendering decisions that would affect people’s lives. It was a complete perversion of the judicial system, a perfect illustration of how Trump rewarded loyalty. Halligan, for her part, continues to pursue the Comey and James cases despite repeated failures. She has appealed the rulings that dismissed her indictments, seeking to have them reinstated.

Bove and Halligan’s legacy will be toxic. They have helped erode public trust in the Department of Justice, politicizing an institution that was meant to remain above the partisan fray. Their names will forever be associated with this dark period in American judicial history. And the worst part is that they are not alone. They are part of a broader network of Trump loyalists who have infiltrated the judicial system, turning positions of power into tools of political repression. The question that remains is how long it will take to repair the damage they have caused, to restore the integrity of the Department of Justice, and to convince Americans that justice can still be blind.

When I think of Bove and Halligan, I feel a mixture of anger and sadness. Anger because they have betrayed their profession, because they have used their legal skills to serve authoritarianism rather than justice. Sadness because they represent a generation of lawyers who chose power over principles, who preferred proximity to the president over professional integrity. They could have been defenders of the law. They chose to be its gravediggers.

The two-tier system: impunity and relentless persecution

For my friends, everything

The year 2025 crystallized a two-tiered justice system in the United States. On one hand, total impunity for Trump’s allies. The January 6 rioters received presidential pardons, erasing their convictions as if they had never existed. People convicted of assaulting police officers, vandalizing the Capitol, and conspiring to overthrow the government—all were released and celebrated. The message was clear: if you’re on the right side, if you support the president, the law doesn’t apply to you. You can commit violent crimes, and not only will you not be punished, but you’ll be rewarded.

This impunity extended beyond the January 6 rioters. Trump associates implicated in financial scandals had their cases dropped. Administration officials accused of ethical violations were shielded. The Department of Justice, which is supposed to be an impartial guardian of the law, has become a shield for the powerful. Whenever a Trump ally was threatened by the justice system, the government intervened to protect them. Whenever an investigation threatened to expose wrongdoing, it was stifled. The judicial system, which is supposed to treat all citizens equally, had become a tool to protect the political elite.

Impunity corrupts. It sends the message that the rules do not apply to everyone, that some are above the law. And when that message comes from the highest levels of government—when the president himself grants pardons and protects his allies—it destroys the legitimacy of the entire system. Why would an ordinary citizen obey the law if those in power do not? Why would they believe in justice if it is clearly biased? These are not rhetorical questions. They are existential for a democracy.

For my enemies, the law

On the other side of this two-tiered system lies the relentless persecution of Trump’s opponents. James Comey and Letitia James were prosecuted on dubious charges, dragged through the courts, and forced to spend fortunes on legal fees. Sidney Reid faced three grand jury attempts to indict him for allegedly pushing an officer’s hand. Sean Dunn was prosecuted for throwing a sandwich. Kilmar Abrego Garcia was illegally deported to a prison for terrorists. These people had not committed serious crimes. Their only offense was having defied Trump, having resisted his policies, having dared to say no.

The relentless persecution wasn’t limited to criminal prosecutions. It included bureaucratic harassment, endless investigations, and strategic leaks to the media. The government used every tool at its disposal to punish and intimidate. And even when the courts dismissed the charges, even when juries acquitted, the government persisted. It appealed, it tried again, it sought new angles of attack. The process itself was the punishment. It didn’t matter if you were ultimately exonerated; the years spent defending yourself, the stress, the financial costs, the tarnished reputation—all of that was the real sentence. It was a form of legal torture, a use of the judicial system as a weapon of personal destruction.

The two-tiered system is nothing new. It has always existed, favoring the rich and powerful at the expense of the poor and marginalized. But in 2025, it has become explicit, unashamed, almost celebrated. Trump doesn’t even try to hide it. He pardons his friends in public; he calls for the prosecution of his enemies on social media. And his Department of Justice obeys. It is corruption so blatant that it has become almost commonplace. And perhaps that is what is most dangerous: that we are getting used to it, that we are accepting it as normal.

Resignations and Internal Resistance

When Prosecutors Say No

One of the most significant stories of 2025—often overlooked amid the media frenzy—is that of the mass resignations within the Department of Justice. Dozens of career prosecutors—men and women who had dedicated their lives to public service—resigned from their posts rather than participate in the Trump administration’s politically motivated prosecutions. These resignations were not silent. Many published letters explaining their reasons, denouncing the corruption within the system, and calling for reform. Their testimonies constitute a damning historical record of the state of the Department of Justice in 2025.

The most widely publicized resignations occurred in connection with the Eric Adams case. When Emil Bove ordered prosecutors to request a temporary stay of prosecution for political reasons, several refused and resigned. Their resignation letters, made public, explained that they could not in good conscience participate in such a blatant manipulation of the judicial system. Other resignations followed in other cases. Prosecutors assigned to the Comey and James cases left their posts. Investigators working on immigration cases resigned rather than pursue cases they deemed unjust. Each resignation was an act of courage, a refusal to compromise their integrity.

The prosecutors who resigned sacrificed their careers. Many had spent decades climbing the ranks, building reputations, and serving justice. And they gave it all up because they could not live with themselves if they stayed. This is a rare kind of courage—the courage to say no when the entire system is pushing you to say yes. I think of them as the unsung heroes of 2025, the silent guardians of integrity in a world that sorely lacks it.

The Resistance of Judges

Prosecutors weren’t the only ones to resist. Federal judges, appointed by presidents from different parties, also played a crucial role in dismissing abusive prosecutions. Judge Dale Ho permanently dismissed the case against Eric Adams, refusing to allow his court to become an instrument of political blackmail. Another judge dismissed the charges against Comey and James, concluding that Prosecutor Lindsey Halligan had been appointed illegally. Judge Paula Xinis ordered the release of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, sharply criticizing the government for its failure to follow legal procedures. These judicial decisions served as essential bulwarks against the abuse of power.

But judicial resistance has its limits. Judges can act only on cases brought before them, and they must follow strict procedures. They cannot prevent the government from pursuing cases; they can only dismiss them once they reach the bench. And the Trump administration has shown a willingness to continue pursuing cases even after dismissals, appealing the decisions and seeking new, more sympathetic judges. The battle between the executive and judicial branches intensified throughout 2025, with victories and defeats on both sides. But the very fact that this battle exists—that judges dare to defy the president—is a sign that the system is not completely broken.

The judges who stood their ground took risks. Trump has a long history of attacking judges who cross him, labeling them “partisan” and “corrupt” and calling for their removal. But these judges stood their ground. They read the law, examined the evidence, and rendered decisions based on facts rather than politics. That’s what judges are supposed to do, of course, but in 2025, it felt like an act of bravery. And perhaps it was.

The Impact on Public Trust

An Institution in Crisis

The events of 2025 had a devastating impact on public confidence in the U.S. justice system. Polls conducted throughout the year showed a dramatic drop in confidence in the Department of Justice, with a majority of Americans stating that they no longer believed the system was impartial. This crisis of confidence transcends partisan lines. Even among Republicans, who are traditionally more inclined to support law enforcement, many have expressed doubts about the system’s integrity. Democrats, for their part, view the Department of Justice as a tool of political repression—a weapon used against them.

This loss of trust has tangible consequences. Witnesses are less inclined to cooperate with federal investigations, fearing that their testimony will be used for political purposes. Juries are more skeptical of government charges, as evidenced by the numerous decisions not to indict and acquittals in 2025. Defense attorneys use the politicization of the Department of Justice as an argument in their closing arguments, and judges are forced to take these arguments seriously. The judicial system operates on the basis of trust: trust that prosecutors act in good faith, that judges are impartial, and that verdicts are fair. When that trust disappears, the entire system collapses.

Trust is fragile. It is built slowly, over decades, through thousands of fair and impartial decisions. But it can be destroyed quickly—in a matter of months—by just a few scandalous cases. And once destroyed, it is nearly impossible to rebuild. That is what happened in 2025. The Department of Justice lost the trust of the American people, and it will take a generation to regain it—if that is even possible.

Lessons for the Future

The five cases we have examined offer crucial lessons for the future. They show how a determined president can corrupt the judicial system, how he can transform institutions meant to be independent into extensions of his personal power. But they also show the limits of that power. The juries refused to cooperate. Judges dismissed abusive prosecutions. Prosecutors resigned rather than compromise their integrity. The system resisted—imperfectly, but it resisted. This resistance offers hope—proof that authoritarianism cannot control everything, that democracy has built-in defenses.

But this hope must be tempered by realism. The damage caused in 2025 is deep and lasting. Trust in the judicial system has been eroded. Dangerous precedents have been set. Innocent people have been persecuted. And most worryingly, there is no guarantee that these abuses will stop. As long as Trump remains in power, as long as his administration controls the Department of Justice, politically motivated prosecutions will continue. The only question is how many people will be crushed by this machine before it is finally shut down. The lessons of 2025 must be learned and remembered—not as historical curiosities, but as warnings for the future.

We are at a turning point. The events of 2025 have shown us just how fragile our judicial system is, just how much it depends on the good faith of the people who administer it. When those people are corrupt, when they use their power to serve political interests rather than justice, everything collapses. But we have also seen that resistance is possible, that courageous individuals can make a difference. The question is whether we will have enough of these individuals—whether we will have enough prosecutors who resign, judges who resist, and jurors who refuse to serve. The future of American democracy depends on the answer to this question.

Conclusion: Justice Put to the Test by Authoritarianism

A Damning Assessment

As 2025 draws to a close, as we take stock of twelve months of judicial abuses, the findings are damning. The Trump administration has used the criminal justice system as a political weapon, relentlessly prosecuting its enemies while shielding its allies with total impunity. The five cases we have examined—the January 6 amnesty, the manipulation of the Eric Adams case, the vindictive prosecutions of Comey and James, the nightmare of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, and the repeated failures before juries in the Reid and Dunn cases—are only the tip of the iceberg. Behind them lie hundreds of other stories—lives shattered, careers destroyed, families torn apart.

But this record is not just that of the Trump administration. It is also ours—that of a society that allowed these abuses, tolerated them, and at times even encouraged them. We stood by while the Department of Justice was transformed into an instrument of vengeance. We listened as the president publicly called for the prosecution of his opponents. We read the reports of illegal deportations, abusive prosecutions, and the resignations of principled prosecutors. And most of us went on with our lives as if nothing had happened. This normalization of the abnormal is perhaps the greatest danger of all—greater even than the abuses themselves.

I end this column with a sense of anger mixed with helplessness. Anger at a system that allows such abuses, at leaders who shamelessly exploit their power, at a society that seems to have lost its capacity for outrage. Helplessness because I don’t know how to stop this machine, how to reverse this trend, how to restore the integrity of a system so deeply corrupted. But I refuse to give in to despair. I refuse to believe that this is inevitable, that we must accept it as our new normal.

Hope in Resistance

Yet, amid this darkness, there are glimmers of hope. The grand juries that have refused to indict, time and again, proving that ordinary citizens can be the last line of defense against the abuse of power. The judges who have dismissed abusive prosecutions, upholding the rule of law despite political pressure. Prosecutors who have resigned rather than compromise, sacrificing their careers to preserve their integrity. These acts of resistance, big and small, show that the system is not completely broken, that democracy still has defenders. They remind us that every individual has a role to play, that every refusal to cooperate with injustice matters.

The year 2025 is coming to an end, but the story it has written continues. The Comey and James cases are still on appeal. Kilmar Abrego Garcia is still fighting his deportation. New politically motivated prosecutions are likely in the works. The battle for the soul of the American judicial system is not over; it may only be beginning. What happens next will depend on all of us—on our willingness to resist, our ability to maintain our outrage in the face of injustice, and our determination not to let authoritarianism become our new normal. The five cases of 2025 are a warning, a call to action, a reminder that democracy is never guaranteed—it must be defended every day.

I have told you these stories because they must be told, because they must not be forgotten. Every name, every detail, every abuse documented here is a building block in the edifice of our collective memory. One day, when this dark period is behind us—if it ever is—we must remember. We must remember how it happened, how we let it happen, and how some people resisted. And perhaps, if we remember clearly enough, if we learn the right lessons, we can prevent this from happening again. That is my hope—fragile but tenacious. That is why I write, why I bear witness, why I refuse to remain silent. Because silence is complicity, and I refuse to be complicit.

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