This Day in Legal History: America’s First Patent

On July 31, 1790, the United States issued its first patent under the newly enacted Patent Act of 1790. The patent was granted to Samuel Hopkins of Vermont for an improved method of producing potash and pearl ash, chemicals widely used in fertilizer, soapmaking, and glass production. President George Washington, Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, and Attorney General Edmund Randolph personally signed the patent—a reminder that, in the nation’s earliest years, the federal government itself directly evaluated patent applications.

The Patent Act of 1790 was one of Congress’s first major efforts to implement the Constitution. Article I, Section 8 authorizes Congress to “promote the progress of science and useful arts” by granting inventors exclusive rights to their discoveries for limited periods. Rather than viewing patents as natural rights, the Framers saw them as legal incentives designed to encourage innovation while ultimately benefiting the public.

The original patent system was remarkably small. A board consisting of Jefferson, Randolph, and Secretary of War Henry Knox decided whether an invention was “sufficiently useful and important” to merit protection. As the country industrialized, that system quickly became overwhelmed, leading Congress to create a more formal Patent Office in 1836 with professional examiners and standardized procedures.

The first patent issued on this day marked the beginning of what has become one of the world’s most influential intellectual property systems. Today, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office grants hundreds of thousands of patents each year, and patent law continues to shape industries ranging from pharmaceuticals and biotechnology to software and artificial intelligence.

President Donald Trump is pressing Senate Republicans to confirm acting Attorney General Todd Blanche, whose nomination has stalled because of a dispute over a proposed $1.8 billion “anti-weaponization” fund. Republican Senators John Cornyn and Thom Tillis have withheld their support while demanding written assurances that the Justice Department will not establish the program. The fund emerged from a proposed settlement of Trump’s $10 billion lawsuit accusing the Internal Revenue Service of improperly handling his tax records. Critics contend that the program could use taxpayer money to compensate Trump supporters who claim they were unfairly targeted by federal authorities, including people investigated or prosecuted in connection with the January 6 Capitol attack. Trump defended the proposal by arguing that victims of government misconduct deserve compensation and maintained that he would not personally benefit from it. Cornyn and Tillis have also objected to a separate provision that could shield Trump and certain associates from future IRS audits. Blanche reportedly met with the senators as the Justice Department attempted to resolve the disagreement. Even without confirmation, Blanche may be able to remain acting attorney general while his nomination is pending, provided that Trump does not formally withdraw it and the Senate does not reject it.

Trump defends ‘anti-weaponization’ fund as Blanche nomination stalls | Reuters

New York Attorney General Letitia James has sued prediction-market operator Kalshi, alleging that the company is offering illegal gambling without a state license. Kalshi allows customers to trade contracts tied to the outcomes of sporting events, elections, television programs, and other future events. New York argues that these transactions function as wagers because customers risk money on outcomes they cannot control. State officials also object to Kalshi allowing customers between the ages of 18 and 20 to participate, while New York generally requires mobile sports bettors to be at least 21. The lawsuit seeks to stop the allegedly unlawful activity, recover Kalshi’s gains, impose civil penalties worth three times those gains, and obtain restitution for customers. James previously brought similar cases against prediction-market platforms operated by Coinbase and Gemini. Kalshi argues that its contracts are federally regulated derivatives under the exclusive authority of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, rather than gambling products governed by individual states. The CFTC has supported that position and filed an emergency request seeking to prevent New York from enforcing its gambling laws against the company. Courts in several other states have already restricted Kalshi’s operations, while a federal judge in New York recently declined to protect the company from state enforcement. The litigation could determine whether prediction markets must comply with state gambling laws, federal commodities regulation, or both.

New York Says Kalshi’s Prediction Markets Are Illegal Gambling

Former federal health official Anthony Fauci could face a contempt-of-Congress referral after refusing to answer more than 100 questions during a Senate investigation into the government’s response to COVID-19. Senator Rand Paul, the Republican chair of the Senate Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee, said the panel would consider referring Fauci for prosecution. Federal law makes it a crime for a person summoned by Congress to deliberately refuse to provide relevant testimony or requested documents. Congress cannot prosecute the offense itself, however, so a committee must approve a referral, followed by the full Senate or House, before the Justice Department decides whether to pursue charges. Reuters reported that a Senate referral would likely require 60 votes, meaning some Democratic support would be necessary. Prosecutors would then need to persuade a grand jury that Fauci intentionally refused to answer questions that fell within the committee’s legitimate investigation. Fauci would likely argue that the Fifth Amendment allowed him to remain silent because his testimony could expose him to criminal liability. President Joe Biden previously pardoned Fauci for possible federal offenses committed between 2014 and January 2025, but that pardon does not cover conduct occurring after Biden left office. The pardon creates an unsettled legal issue because courts have not clearly decided whether a witness may invoke the Fifth Amendment regarding conduct already covered by a presidential pardon. Even if Congress approves a referral, the Justice Department and a Washington grand jury would still have separate opportunities to decline the case.

Could Fauci face criminal charges for refusing Senate COVID questions? | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: America’s First Representative Assembly

On July 30, 1619, in a wooden church at Jamestown, twenty-two elected representatives took their seats alongside the governor and his council, and the first representative legislative assembly in what would become the United States came to order. This was the Virginia General Assembly—soon known through its elected chamber as the House of Burgesses—and it marks the beginning of self-government by elected representatives in America.

The mechanics were modest and the setting brutal: two burgesses were elected from each of the colony’s eleven settlements, and they met in sweltering heat so severe that one burgess died during the six-day session. But the principle was revolutionary. Under instructions from the Virginia Company, Governor George Yeardley had called forth a body in which colonists—not just a distant crown or company—would have a hand in making the laws that governed them. It became the oldest continuous law-making body in the New World, and it planted an idea that would grow over the next century and a half into a full-blown theory of government by consent.

The significance of July 30, 1619 is that so much of American constitutional order traces back to this cramped, miserable first session. The House of Burgesses trained generations of colonial leaders in the practice of legislative self-government; it was the venue where figures like Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson cut their political teeth; and its example fed directly into the revolutionary conviction that legitimate power flows from the consent of the governed and is exercised through elected representatives. It’s a fitting anniversary for a day when one of our stories turns on that very principle—the Senate’s constitutional duty to advise and consent on who leads the Justice Department.

President Trump and the Justice Department have asked the Supreme Court to throw out the $83 million defamation verdict that writer E. Jean Carroll won against him, arguing that he can’t be sued for statements he made while he was president. Some quick context: a Manhattan jury awarded Carroll roughly $83 million in early 2024 over defamatory comments Trump made in 2019 denying her sexual-assault allegation. This is now Trump’s second trip to the Supreme Court in the Carroll saga—recall that back in June the justices declined to hear his appeal of a separate $5 million verdict, which we covered here. The new appeal leans heavily on the Court’s 2024 presidential-immunity decision, which gave presidents broad immunity for official acts. Trump’s lawyers argue that because he made the disputed statements in 2019 while in office, that immunity should shield him, and they accuse the appeals court of “procedural contortions” to avoid the question. The significance is about how far the 2024 immunity ruling stretches. That decision arose in the context of criminal prosecution for official acts; here it’s being deployed to wipe out a civil defamation judgment for things a sitting president said to reporters. Whether “official act” immunity reaches a president’s public denials about a private, decades-old personal matter is a genuinely consequential question—and the fact that the Justice Department has joined Trump’s personal civil appeal is itself a notable signal about how the government is deploying its weight.

Trump asks Supreme Court to throw out E. Jean Carroll’s $83 million verdict | Reuters

Washington Post · CNN

Todd Blanche’s bid to become attorney general has hit a serious snag: the Senate Judiciary Committee scrapped a planned vote after Republican Senator John Cornyn said he is “not prepared to vote yes.” We’ve tracked Blanche’s nomination through his confirmation hearing, and the math has always been tight—with the recent death of Senator Lindsey Graham, committee Republicans have just one vote to spare, so Cornyn alone could sink it. What’s notable is the substance of his objection, because it ties together several threads we’ve followed all month. Cornyn’s concerns center on the administration’s roughly $1.8 billion “anti-weaponization fund” and the settlement of Trump’s lawsuit against the IRS—the very deal a federal judge voided weeks ago as a collusive arrangement, and which would have handed Trump and his associates protections from tax audits unavailable to ordinary taxpayers. In other words, the sticking point isn’t Blanche’s résumé; it’s the integrity of the tax system and whether the Justice Department has been used to engineer special treatment. The committee said the vote is postponed while it works “to secure sufficient support.” The significance is a real-time illustration of advice and consent functioning as a check—not a rubber stamp. A president’s nominee for the nation’s top law-enforcement job is stalled because a member of his own party wants answers about a tax settlement that courts have already called unlawful. It’s the Senate’s constitutional role doing exactly what it’s designed to do: forcing accountability before handing over power.

Trump’s attorney general nominee hits snag as senator withholds support | Reuters

NPR · Washington Post

And finally, a story close to home for anyone in this profession: the debut of the new national bar exam has gone badly wrong. This week marked the first-ever administration of the NextGen Uniform Bar Examination—a major overhaul of how aspiring lawyers are licensed—across ten jurisdictions. And in Washington State, it collapsed. Officials canceled the entire first day of testing after network bandwidth and Wi-Fi problems left hundreds of examinees unable to even access the exam; somewhere between 645 and 700 standard-time test-takers were affected. Missouri saw delayed start times, and a Maryland site had a shorter delay. The National Conference of Bar Examiners, which runs the exam, insists the NextGen platform itself performed as intended and pinned the failures on local network and site infrastructure rather than the software. That’s cold comfort to the test-takers. Think about what’s actually at stake for them: months of full-time study, bar-prep costs, and in many cases a job offer contingent on passing—all thrown into limbo. Washington is offering a make-up exam on September 1, or the option to transfer to the February 2027 sitting or get a refund, and there are already calls for a class action and even for “diploma privilege”—admitting these graduates without an exam. The significance is both practical and symbolic. Practically, hundreds of careers are on hold through no fault of the examinees. Symbolically, the gateway to the legal profession—the gatekeeping ritual that’s supposed to certify competence—failed a basic test of its own on its most important day, and it’s going to intensify the already-heated debate over whether the bar exam, in any form, is the right way to license lawyers.

Tech problems, cancellation mar new US bar exam for some test-takers | Reuters

Bloomberg Law · Above the Law

This Day in Legal History: The First Hague Convention

On July 29, 1899, delegates from twenty-six nations signed the first Hague Convention, the product of an international peace conference convened at the initiative of Russia’s Tsar Nicholas II. It was one of the founding moments of modern international law—an attempt, at the close of a violent century, to subject the conduct of war and the resolution of disputes between nations to legal rules rather than raw power.

The 1899 Convention did two enduring things. First, it began the codification of the laws and customs of war—rules on the treatment of prisoners, the protection of civilians, and limits on certain weapons—laying groundwork that would grow into the modern law of armed conflict and, eventually, the Geneva Conventions. Second, and just as important, it created the Permanent Court of Arbitration in The Hague, the first standing international institution designed to let states resolve their disputes through neutral arbitration instead of on the battlefield. The idea was radical for its time: that sovereign nations would voluntarily submit their quarrels to a legal process.

The Hague system was, of course, imperfect—the twentieth century that followed was the bloodiest in human history, and the conventions did not prevent two world wars. But the significance of July 29, 1899 is that it planted the institutional and conceptual seeds of everything that came after: the League of Nations, the United Nations, the International Court of Justice, the international criminal tribunals, and the entire architecture of treaties and adjudication that structures relations between states today. It reflects an enduring aspiration—one that runs through so much of what we cover—that disputes are better settled by law than by force. It’s a fitting backdrop for a day whose stories, in their own ways, are all about turning conflict over to the legal system rather than settling it by other means.

A federal appeals court has revived a proposed class action accusing Chobani of deceiving consumers by marketing some of its Greek yogurt as “zero sugar.” The Seventh Circuit in Chicago ruled that consumers can proceed with claims under state consumer-protection laws, because Chobani Zero Sugar yogurt contains about four grams per serving of allulose, a naturally occurring sweetener. Here’s the wrinkle that makes this interesting. Allulose is chemically a sugar, but the body barely metabolizes it, so the FDA lets manufacturers leave it out of the “sugars” lines on the Nutrition Facts panel. Chobani leaned on exactly that, saying its panel accurately shows zero grams of total and added sugar. But the court focused on the big front-of-package promise—”Zero Sugar”—and found persuasive an FDA brief explaining that “total sugars” actually includes all monosaccharides, allulose among them. Under FDA rules, a product generally can’t be labeled “zero sugar” or “sugar free” unless it has less than half a gram of sugar per serving. Writing for the court, Judge Thomas Kirsch said it was not implausible that consumers—here, a couple who bought the yogurt at a Costco near Chicago—were “fooled” by that absolute promise. The significance is a reminder that the technically-accurate fine print on the back doesn’t necessarily save a bold marketing claim on the front. This is how consumer-protection law polices the gap between what a label shouts and what a product actually contains, and the ruling lets the plaintiffs try to prove that gap misled shoppers.

Chobani must face lawsuit over zero-sugar yogurt claim, US appeals court rules | Reuters

Yahoo Finance · Insurance Journal

eBay and three of its former executives have agreed to pay roughly $56 million to settle a civil suit brought by a Massachusetts couple who were the targets of one of the more disturbing corporate harassment campaigns in recent memory. The couple, Ina and David Steiner, publish an e-commerce trade newsletter, and back in 2019 several eBay employees—furious over the Steiners’ coverage of the company—orchestrated a campaign to terrorize them: shipping cockroaches, live spiders and fly larvae, and a bloody pig Halloween mask to their home, sending threatening messages, and conducting covert surveillance. It grew out of internal communications in which senior executives discussed taking the couple “down.” The criminal side of this played out years ago, with multiple former employees prosecuted and sentenced. This week’s news is the civil resolution: eBay will pay about $46 million to the couple plus millions more in charitable contributions, and the former executives are personally on the hook—two million dollars from former CEO Devin Wenig, and smaller sums from two others. The significance here is corporate accountability, and specifically accountability for retaliation against the press. A powerful company weaponized its resources to punish two journalists for critical coverage—the kind of retaliation that strikes at the heart of a free press—and while the criminal cases addressed the individual foot soldiers, this settlement attaches a very large price tag to the company and the executives at the top. It’s a stark example of the civil justice system doing what the criminal system often can’t: reaching the institution and its leadership, and making them pay.

eBay, former executives to pay $56 million to settle couple’s harassment case | Reuters

CNN · CNBC

And finally, prosecutors have offered their most detailed account yet of why they believe activist Charlie Kirk was killed, arguing in a new court filing that the man accused of shooting him targeted Kirk for his political and religious views. Kirk, a prominent conservative activist and ally of President Trump, was shot and killed in September 2025 at a university in Utah; Tyler Robinson, who is 23, is charged in his death. In the filing, prosecutors pointed to Kirk’s opposition to gay marriage and transgender rights, and cited a letter from a board member of Kirk’s organization describing him as the face of a political and religious movement. They allege Robinson’s own lifestyle ran contrary to Kirk’s views and that he targeted Kirk because of his “political expression.” Robinson’s defense attorney pushed back, arguing that the materials the state is relying on show nothing about whether Robinson actually disagreed with Kirk or what was in his mind. And that disagreement is the legal heart of this. Motive is not, strictly speaking, an element the prosecution must prove to establish murder—but it is powerful evidence, it helps a jury make sense of a killing, and in a serious case it can bear heavily on how the crime is characterized and punished. What we’re watching is the perennial challenge of proving why someone did something: the state assembling external evidence to reconstruct a defendant’s internal state of mind, and the defense insisting that inference isn’t proof. The significance is that a case already saturated with political meaning will now turn, in part, on a genuinely hard legal question—how, and whether, prosecutors can establish motive—and the coming proceedings will test whether their theory holds up under the rules of evidence.

Prosecutors say Charlie Kirk was attacked for his politics, cite anti-LGBT views | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: Sonia Sotomayor Advances to the Supreme Court

On July 28, 2009, the Senate Judiciary Committee voted to approve the nomination of Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court, sending her to the full Senate, which confirmed her the following week. With that confirmation she became the first Hispanic justice—and only the third woman—ever to serve on the Court.

Her path to the bench was the stuff of American mythology, and it was central to her nomination. Born in the Bronx to Puerto Rican parents, raised in a housing project, diagnosed with juvenile diabetes at seven and losing her father at nine, she went on to Princeton and Yale Law School, then worked as a Manhattan prosecutor before becoming a federal trial judge and later a judge on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. As a district judge, she famously issued the injunction that ended the 1994–95 Major League Baseball strike. Her confirmation fight, though, turned heavily on a single phrase from an earlier speech—her remark that a “wise Latina” might, with the richness of her experiences, sometimes reach a better conclusion than someone without them. Critics called it bias; supporters called it an honest acknowledgment that lived experience shapes judgment.

In the years since, Sotomayor has become one of the Court’s most forceful liberal voices, known for pointed dissents on race, criminal justice, and—fittingly for today—the very “shadow docket” at the center of our lead story. She has been among the sharpest critics of the Court deciding major questions through emergency orders with little briefing and no argument. The significance of July 28, 2009 is both symbolic and substantive: symbolic, in that a woman from a Bronx housing project reached the pinnacle of the American legal system and expanded who Americans see reflected on their highest court; and substantive, in that she has spent her tenure insisting the Court explain itself and show its work—an insistence that lands with particular weight in a week when the justices are again being asked to make consequential law on the emergency docket.

The Trump administration has escalated its fight over mail-in voting all the way to the Supreme Court, asking the justices on an emergency basis to let its executive order take effect nationwide. This is the direct sequel to yesterday’s story: after the First Circuit refused on Saturday to lift the injunction blocking key parts of the March order, the Justice Department went straight to the high Court, asking it to put that injunction on hold while the litigation continues. The order directs federal agencies to build voter-eligibility lists and to restrict Postal Service delivery of ballots not tied to those lists; a coalition of 23 states and D.C. argues the President simply lacks authority to impose federal rules on elections that the Constitution assigns to states and to Congress. What’s notable here is the vehicle. This is an emergency application—part of what critics call the “shadow docket,” where the Court decides consequential questions quickly, often with little briefing and no full argument. Regular listeners will remember the shadow docket as a recurring concern precisely because it lets the Court make major law in the shadows. The justices have told the states to respond by August 3, so a decision could come fast. The significance is that one of the most consequential election-administration questions in years—decided against the administration twice below—is now in the hands of a Supreme Court being asked to act on an emergency timeline, months before the midterms.

Trump administration asks Supreme Court to allow mail-in ballot restrictions | Reuters

Washington Post · CNBC

Johnson & Johnson has announced a $5.5 billion settlement to resolve tens of thousands of lawsuits claiming its talc products caused ovarian cancer—a deal that could finally close out more than a decade of litigation. The settlement would cover roughly 69,000 cases consolidated in New Jersey federal court plus related state cases, amounting to about 99.75% of the remaining talc claims. If you were with us last week, the timing is impossible to miss: just days ago, the federal magistrate judge overseeing those 69,000 cases cast serious doubt on whether the plaintiffs could even prove specific causation, ordering them to explain why their claims shouldn’t be dismissed. Days later, J&J puts $5.5 billion on the table. That sequence is a lesson in how litigation leverage works—a favorable evidentiary signal can push a defendant toward a global resolution on its own terms, or embolden it, depending on the read. The mechanics matter: the deal needs acceptance by 95% of the ovarian-cancer claimants and approval from the judge overseeing the federal litigation. And notably, J&J isn’t conceding anything—its litigation chief called the claims “meritless,” and the company still denies its talc caused cancer, though it pulled talc-based baby powder from U.S. and Canadian shelves back in 2020. The significance is that after years of trials, appeals, and two failed attempts to offload the liability through bankruptcy, J&J is choosing certainty and closure over continued combat—paying billions to make a decade of litigation risk go away, without ever admitting its product was dangerous.

Johnson & Johnson announces $5.5 billion settlement of talc lawsuits | Reuters

CBS News · Bloomberg Law

A major trial has opened in Nashville, where the state of Tennessee is telling a jury that Meta knew its Instagram platform was harming teenagers and buried the evidence to protect its profits. In opening statements for what’s expected to be a seven-week trial in state court, Tennessee’s lawyers said Meta’s own researchers repeatedly flagged that some teens were using the platform compulsively—linked to eating disorders, depression, and self-harm—yet the company declined to disable engagement features like autoplay, notifications, and infinite scroll, which the state says were designed to keep teens hooked and maximize the ads they saw. Meta’s lawyer countered that the company has been transparent about the risks teens face and about the dangerous content it works to find and remove. The legal theory here should sound familiar—it echoes the playbook used against Big Tobacco: the argument that a company’s own internal research proves it knew about the harm and chose profit anyway. That’s powerful evidence if the jury believes it, which is likely why, according to reporting, there’s already been a fight over whether Meta’s lawyers tried to keep some of that internal research out. This connects to threads we’ve followed all month, from the multistate suit seeking enormous penalties to the individual bellwether cases. The significance is that these harm-to-teens claims are now being tested in front of an actual jury, and the outcome will shape how Meta and its peers value the risk—and how aggressively other states and plaintiffs press similar cases.

Meta disregarded its own research on teen harm, Tennessee tells jury | Reuters

And finally, in my column for Bloomberg Tax this week, I use a striking data point—the Miami metro area’s cost of living has reportedly now surpassed greater New York City’s—to make a case about how we misunderstand what it means to call a state “low tax.” My core argument is that focusing on a single, highly visible tax like the income tax gives you a badly incomplete picture of whether a place is actually affordable, and for whom.

Here’s the logic. Florida markets itself relentlessly on having no personal income tax, and rankings like the Tax Foundation’s competitiveness index put Florida near the top and New York dead last largely on that basis. But I argue that conflates three very different claims: that Florida collects less through income taxes, that households there bear lower total costs, and that residents end up better off. Only the first is clearly true. The costs a state doesn’t cover through an income tax don’t vanish—they get shifted, recovered through other levies, or pushed into the private market. It’s the same principle as a restaurant that offers “free” parking: the cost of that parking is just baked into the price of the food. When Florida forgoes an income tax, residents still pay—through sales and property taxes, fees, sky-high insurance premiums, and services they have to buy privately that other states provide publicly. And because the income tax is the most progressive major revenue source a state has, replacing it with all of that tends to shift the burden down the income ladder.

The comparison I keep coming back to is the everyday cost that a public system absorbs in New York but a family pays out of pocket in Florida. New York guarantees every four-year-old a free, full-day pre-K seat; Florida’s program funds about 540 instructional hours—roughly three hours a day—leaving working parents to cover the rest. New York’s subsidized transit lets many households skip a car entirely. None of these private substitutes—an insurer, a toll road, a childcare provider—charges you less because you earn less, the way an income tax does. So here’s the distributional punchline of my piece: Florida’s model is a genuinely great deal if you make ten million dollars a year, because avoiding the income tax dwarfs everything else. But for the merely affluent professional making a few hundred thousand—and certainly for middle- and lower-income households—those insurance bills, tuition payments, and housing costs can quietly eat the whole “tax savings.” My bottom line is that any honest discussion of tax competitiveness has to start with comprehensive household-burden metrics across income levels, not a single headline rate—because “low tax” and “affordable” are not the same thing, and treating them as if they were lets officials sell breaks for the wealthy as broad affordability wins.

Miami’s Cost of Living Shows Income Tax’s Limits as a Metric | Bloomberg Tax

This Day in Legal History: The First Executive Department

On July 27, 1789, President George Washington signed the act establishing the Department of Foreign Affairs—the first executive department created under the brand-new Constitution, and the direct ancestor of today’s State Department, which was renamed a few weeks later. It’s easy to overlook, but this was a foundational moment: the First Congress was building the executive branch essentially from scratch, deciding what federal administration would actually look like in practice.

The most consequential part of the debate wasn’t the department’s diplomatic functions—it was a question that still echoes through constitutional law today: who controls the officials who run these departments? The Constitution says the President appoints principal officers with the Senate’s consent, but it is conspicuously silent on who can remove them. As Congress drafted the statute, it confronted this head-on in what historians call the “Decision of 1789.” After intense debate, Congress structured the law to reflect the view that the President alone—without needing the Senate’s permission—holds the power to remove the department head. That choice embedded a powerful assumption about presidential control of the executive branch into the very first agency Congress built.

The significance of July 27, 1789 reaches all the way to the present. The Decision of 1789 has been cited by the Supreme Court for a century as evidence that the Constitution vests the President with broad removal power—in cases like Myers v. United States, and more recently in the modern fights over the independence of agencies like the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and the removal of officials at supposedly independent commissions. Every time we argue about whether a president can fire the head of an agency at will, we are arguing about a question the First Congress thought it had answered when it created this very first department. It’s a reminder that the architecture of executive power was contested from the founding’s opening days—and that those early choices still bind us.

A federal appeals court has refused to let the administration implement President Trump’s executive order overhauling mail-in voting, keeping the order frozen ahead of November’s midterm elections. In a 2-1 decision, the Boston-based First Circuit declined to lift an injunction that Democratic-led states won on June 25, when a lower-court judge found key parts of the order unconstitutional. Here’s what the March order actually did. It directed federal officials to build a national “state citizenship list” of eligible voters, and told the Justice Department to investigate officials who mail ballots to people the administration deems ineligible. The constitutional problem is structural: under the Constitution, the authority to set the “times, places and manner” of elections rests with the states and with Congress—not with the President acting alone by executive order. The states argued, and the courts have so far agreed, that the President can’t unilaterally rewrite the machinery of federal elections. This fits a pattern we’ve tracked all month—the SAVE citizenship database fight, the Justice Department’s warnings to election officials, the gutting of the Election Assistance Commission. The significance is that the judiciary is repeatedly drawing the same line: however much a president wants to reshape how Americans vote, elections in this country are decentralized by constitutional design, and that design is holding, at least for now, right when it matters most.

US appeals court rules Trump cannot implement mail-in voting order | Reuters

Tom Goldstein—one of the most celebrated Supreme Court advocates of his generation, who argued 44 cases before the Court and co-founded SCOTUSblog—has been sentenced to six years in prison for tax evasion and mortgage fraud. We previewed the sentencing on Friday; now the number is in: 72 months, and the judge revoked his bond and took him into custody on the spot. Recall the conduct the jury found: Goldstein concealed millions in winnings and losses from his secret life as an ultra-high-stakes poker player, diverted his law firm’s legal fees into personal accounts to cover gambling debts, and steered money to his creditors so it never surfaced as reportable income. The Justice Department had asked for eight years; the judge landed at six. The significance is the same point I made in my Forbes piece last week, now delivered with a prison term attached: the tax laws reach even the most sophisticated players, but only when the government invests the resources to untangle complex, deliberately obscured finances. Goldstein’s case is the rare, resource-intensive prosecution that actually happens—and its severity sends a message to the sliver of high-end taxpayers who assume complexity is a shield. That a lawyer who reached the absolute summit of the profession is now headed to federal prison over how he handled his taxes is a stark bookend to a remarkable career.

Star US Supreme Court lawyer Goldstein sentenced for tax crimes | Reuters

And finally, the same Boston appeals court has rejected the administration’s bid to revive its $100,000 fee on new H-1B visas for highly skilled foreign workers. The First Circuit declined to pause a lower-court ruling from June 8 that struck down the fee, and the reasoning goes to the heart of who gets to impose costs like this. The trial court held that the fee was, in substance, an unlawful tax that Congress never authorized—and taxing is a power the Constitution gives to Congress, not the executive. To put the number in perspective: employers seeking an H-1B visa typically paid somewhere between $2,000 and $5,000 in fees before this; the administration wanted to charge a hundred thousand dollars, as part of a broader effort to discourage companies from hiring foreign workers over Americans. The three-judge panel found the administration hadn’t shown it was likely to prove it stayed within its authority. The significance connects directly to the theme running through today’s episode: the limits of executive power. Just as the President can’t unilaterally rewrite election rules, he can’t unilaterally impose what amounts to a six-figure tax on visa applications without Congress. When the executive reaches for a power the Constitution assigns elsewhere—here, the power to tax—the courts have been willing to say no. It’s a reminder that even sweeping policy goals have to run through the constitutional plumbing of who is actually allowed to do what.

Appeals court rejects Trump bid to halt $100,000 H-1B visa fee ruling | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The Scottsboro Case

On July 24, 1937, the state of Alabama dropped all charges against four of the nine young Black men known to history as the Scottsboro Boys—a small, belated measure of relief in one of the most notorious miscarriages of justice in American legal history, and a case that helped reshape constitutional criminal procedure. The nine, ranging in age from approximately 13 to 20, had been arrested after riding a freight train through Alabama in 1931 and falsely accused of raping two white women. Within two weeks, in a series of rushed trials before all-white juries, eight of them had been convicted and sentenced to death; the trial of the youngest, Roy Wright, ended in a mistrial when the jury could not agree on whether to impose death or life imprisonment.

The extraordinary speed and unfairness of those proceedings produced two landmark Supreme Court decisions that still shape the rights of criminal defendants. In Powell v. Alabama in 1932, the Court held that the defendants had been denied due process because they had not received the timely and meaningful assistance of counsel needed to prepare their defense. The Court’s holding was formally limited to capital cases involving indigent defendants incapable of adequately defending themselves, but it became a foundational step toward the broader right to appointed counsel later recognized in Gideon v. Wainwright. Then, in Norris v. Alabama in 1935, the Court overturned Clarence Norris’s conviction because Alabama had systematically excluded qualified Black citizens from its jury rolls. Building on earlier equal-protection precedents, the Court made clear that a state could not accomplish through discriminatory administration what the Constitution prohibited it from doing expressly.

The Scottsboro cases dragged on for years through retrials, reconvictions despite one accuser’s recantation, appeals, and slow, partial releases. On July 24, 1937, Alabama dropped all charges against Willie Roberson, Olen Montgomery, Eugene Williams, and Roy Wright. Prosecutors expressly concluded that Roberson and Montgomery were not guilty; Williams and Wright were released principally because of their youth and the six years they had already spent imprisoned. The state continued prosecuting or imprisoning the remaining defendants.

The significance of the Scottsboro saga is twofold: it exposed nationally how the Jim Crow justice system operated against Black defendants, and it forced the Supreme Court to give practical constitutional force to protections—meaningful representation by counsel and freedom from racially discriminatory jury selection—that we now consider basic. It is a reminder that some of the most important rights in American law were secured through the suffering of people who were themselves never fully given justice.

Thomas Goldstein, one of the most prominent Supreme Court advocates of his generation and a co-founder of the widely read SCOTUSblog, is being sentenced today after a jury convicted him of tax evasion and mortgage fraud. Goldstein argued dozens of cases before the Supreme Court and built a celebrated appellate practice—but prosecutors showed the jury a hidden second life as an ultra-high-stakes poker player, in games running into the tens of millions of dollars. The jury found him guilty on 12 of 16 counts, including tax evasion, assisting in the preparation of false returns, willfully failing to pay taxes on time, and lying to mortgage lenders. The conduct is a case study in exactly the kind of sophisticated evasion I wrote about in Forbes this week: prosecutors said Goldstein concealed millions in poker winnings and losses, diverted his law firm’s legal fees into personal accounts to cover gambling debts, and directed people to pay his creditors so the money never showed up as his income. That’s not a wage earner whose taxes are withheld automatically—it’s precisely the complex, hard-to-trace arrangement that takes real investigative resources to unwind. The Justice Department has asked for eight years in prison. The significance is a pointed reminder that the tax laws reach even the elite of the legal profession—and that when the government does devote the resources to untangle a sophisticated scheme, the accountability can be severe. A man who spent his career at the pinnacle of the legal system now faces the system’s full weight.

Star US Supreme Court lawyer Goldstein to be sentenced for tax crimes | Reuters

The Justice Department has dropped its subpoenas of New York Times journalists over their reporting on the Qatari-donated Air Force One—a striking retreat that came after a federal judge tore into nearly every aspect of the government’s approach. We’ve been following this one: the subpoenas were issued July 10, days after the Times published its stories, seeking grand jury testimony and phone records to unmask the reporters’ sources. At Thursday’s hearing, U.S. District Judge Arun Subramanian pressed the government hard. He criticized prosecutors for hastily issuing subpoenas that the DOJ’s own lawyers admitted were riddled with “inadvertent errors,” and he chided them for asking another judge to gag phone companies from telling the journalists their records had been subpoenaed—days after the department had already publicly confirmed the subpoenas existed. Faced with that skepticism, the government agreed to withdraw them. A Times lawyer called it “a great day for the First Amendment and a great day for the rule of law.” The significance is worth stating precisely. This wasn’t a sweeping constitutional ruling establishing a reporter’s privilege—the DOJ retreated before the judge had to decide the hard First Amendment question. But it’s a concrete example of judicial scrutiny working as a check: when a court forced the government to justify subpoenas aimed at the press, the case collapsed under its own sloppiness and overreach. After a month of friction between the administration and the media, the press got a clear win.

US judge to weigh New York Times subpoenas over Trump plane reporting | Reuters

And finally, the pause on Paramount Skydance’s roughly $110 billion acquisition of Warner Bros. Discovery has been extended—a federal judge has now frozen the deal through August 17. When we covered this earlier in the week, U.S. District Judge Araceli Martínez-Olguín had issued a short 14-day restraining order at the request of a dozen state attorneys general; now that freeze runs deeper into August, buying the court time to weigh the states’ request to block the merger outright. The states’ antitrust theory has sharpened. They argue the combination would lessen competition in three specific markets: wide-release theatrical film distribution, top-grossing theatrical distribution, and basic cable licensing—harming movie theaters, cable distributors, and ultimately audiences. Remember the framework: antitrust law lets courts halt mergers that would concentrate too much market power, and a pause like this preserves the status quo so the deal can’t close before a judge decides whether it’s lawful. The significance is that time is itself a weapon in merger fights. Every week a deal sits frozen adds cost, uncertainty, and risk for the companies, and it gives regulators and challengers leverage. Here it’s state attorneys general—not federal antitrust enforcers—driving the challenge, and they’ve now kept one of the largest media mergers in history on ice for the better part of a month, with the decisive rulings still to come.

Paramount-Warner Bros. deal paused through August 17, judge rules | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: Congress Shrinks the Supreme Court

On July 23, 1866, Congress passed the Judicial Circuits Act, and in doing so did something that sounds almost unimaginable today: it shrank the Supreme Court. The Act provided that the Court would gradually contract from ten justices down to seven, as sitting justices died or retired and their seats simply went unfilled. Yesterday we talked about Franklin Roosevelt’s failed attempt to enlarge the Court to overpower it; today’s anniversary is the mirror image—Congress reducing the Court’s size for pointedly political reasons.

The politics were about President Andrew Johnson. Johnson, who had ascended to the presidency after Lincoln’s assassination, was locked in a bitter struggle with the Radical Republicans in Congress over Reconstruction. Congress did not trust him, and one thing it was determined to deny him was the power to shape the Supreme Court. By legislating that upcoming vacancies would go unfilled until the Court shrank to seven, Congress effectively stripped Johnson of any Supreme Court appointments. It was court-unpacking as a weapon of inter-branch warfare—using Congress’s control over the Court’s size not to change its rulings directly, but to lock a distrusted president out of influencing it.

The size of the Supreme Court has never been fixed by the Constitution—it’s set by statute, and it has ranged from six at the founding up to ten and back down over the country’s first century. After Johnson left office, Congress promptly passed the Judiciary Act of 1869 and settled the number at nine, where it has remained ever since. The significance of July 23, 1866 is that it’s the clearest historical example of Congress manipulating the Court’s very size for immediate political advantage—and, paired with the 1937 court-packing fight, it bookends the story of how the number nine came to feel sacrosanct even though it never actually was. The Court’s independence, it turns out, has always rested partly on a political truce about not touching its structure.

A Manhattan federal judge is set to weigh today whether to throw out the Justice Department’s subpoenas to New York Times journalists who reported on security concerns about President Trump flying on a Qatari-donated Air Force One. This is the next chapter of a story we covered when the subpoenas first landed: they were issued July 10 by the Manhattan U.S. Attorney, and U.S. District Judge Arun Subramanian has paused their enforcement pending this afternoon’s hearing. The two sides want very different things. Prosecutors have asked the judge merely to put the subpoenas on hold for a couple of weeks, saying the investigation’s next steps could shape his decision; the Times wants them quashed outright, arguing they’re designed to harass and intimidate journalists in violation of the First Amendment. The legal backdrop is genuinely unsettled. There is no absolute reporter’s privilege under federal law—prosecutors correctly note the First Amendment doesn’t categorically excuse reporters from testifying in criminal investigations—but courts have long been wary of subpoenas that function as fishing expeditions to unmask sources. The significance is that this hearing is a concrete test of where that line falls, and it lands amid a broader pattern we’ve tracked all month of friction between the administration and the press. However Judge Subramanian rules, it will be an early data point on how much protection newsgathering gets when the government wants to know who talked.

US judge to weigh New York Times subpoenas over Trump plane reporting | Reuters

The teenager at the center of a closely watched lawsuit blaming social media for his depression and anxiety has dropped his claims against Meta just days before trial. The plaintiff, a 15-year-old known in court papers as R.K.C., had originally sued four companies—Google’s YouTube, Meta’s Instagram, Snap’s Snapchat, and ByteDance’s TikTok—alleging their platforms were engineered to be addictive and harmed his mental health. YouTube, TikTok, and Snap all reached confidential settlements earlier, which would have left Meta as the lone defendant when the case went before a Los Angeles jury on July 27. Instead, R.K.C. withdrew, ending the case. Here’s why this matters beyond one teenager. His was a “bellwether” case—one of a small set of representative lawsuits chosen from a huge pool of similar claims and tried first, so both sides can see how juries react and use those signals to gauge settlement values across the whole litigation. When a marquee bellwether evaporates right before trial, it sends a message, though an ambiguous one: it could reflect a quiet settlement, a weakness in this particular plaintiff’s proof, or simply strategic repositioning. The significance is that the sprawling social-media-harm litigation against these platforms rolls on, but this particular test balloon won’t be inflated—depriving both the companies and the thousands of other plaintiffs of a data point they were watching closely.

Teen plaintiff suing Meta over mental health harms drops his claims against company days before trial | Reuters

A federal judge has cast serious doubt on roughly 69,000 lawsuits claiming that Johnson & Johnson’s talc products caused ovarian cancer, warning the plaintiffs they must come forward with better evidence or risk having their cases dismissed. U.S. Magistrate Judge Rukhsanah Singh in Trenton, New Jersey, zeroed in on a problem at the heart of the litigation: causation. In a mass tort like this, plaintiffs generally have to show not just that a product can cause harm in the abstract—”general causation”—but that it caused this particular plaintiff’s disease—”specific causation.” Judge Singh noted that two of the plaintiffs’ own expert witnesses, testifying in preparation for a set of bellwether trials, conceded they could not rule out other possible causes of the women’s cancers. That’s a serious admission, because it goes to whether the experts can offer an opinion that’s admissible at all under the rules that make judges the “gatekeepers” of scientific testimony. If you’ve been listening, this should ring a bell—it’s the same expert-gatekeeping battleground we saw in the Tylenol-autism case, just cutting the other direction. Here the judge ordered plaintiffs to explain, by November 19, why their cases shouldn’t be tossed for lack of an admissible expert opinion tying J&J’s talc to their specific cancers. The significance is that after years of litigation, settlements, and failed bankruptcy maneuvers, the whole edifice of these 69,000 claims may hinge on a question of scientific proof—and the judge just signaled the plaintiffs have a real problem.

US judge casts doubt on 69,000 cases alleging J&J talc caused cancer | Reuters

And finally, in a piece I wrote for Forbes this week, I make an argument that runs underneath a lot of the tax stories we’ve covered lately: the tax code is only as real as its enforcement. My core claim is that defunding the IRS doesn’t actually shrink the tax code—it quietly splits it into two.

Here’s the framing I start with. Washington has a strange way of talking about tax enforcement. Money to help the IRS collect taxes that are already legally owed gets described as spending, waste, or bureaucratic excess—but when Congress cuts that funding and less revenue comes in, the shortfall gets treated like weather, as if it just happened. I think that’s exactly backwards. Congress can write whatever rates, deductions, partnership rules, and anti-abuse provisions it likes, but without skilled auditors and functioning technology, a big chunk of those rules becomes purely aspirational.

And crucially, that aspiration isn’t evenly distributed. For most wage earners, there’s almost no room to maneuver: your income is reported by your employer, your taxes are withheld before you ever see the paycheck, and a computer can flag a mismatch without a human ever looking at your return. But wealthier filers and large businesses often operate through partnerships, closely held entities, cross-border transactions, and complex securities arrangements that take specialized expertise and real time to unwind. So my point is that defunding the IRS doesn’t create a smaller tax code—it creates two codes: a statutory, basically inescapable one for people whose income is visible, and a negotiated one for people whose finances are complicated enough to delay, obscure, or contest what they owe. Strip out the enforcement capacity, and the nominal rule stays on the books while its practical effect on the highest earners quietly weakens. That’s regressive—a backdoor tax cut for the taxpayers best positioned to resist enforcement.

There’s a new bill, the Stop CHEATERS Act, that would restore enforcement funding, and I think its sponsors are right about the underlying problem. But I argue they should retire the “fair share” language they’ve wrapped around it. “Fair share” is subjective—reasonable people can argue forever about whether capital gains should get preferential treatment or whether the top rate is too high or too low, and those are legitimate legislative questions. But that’s not the issue here. Congress already wrote the laws; taxpayers are already obligated to follow them. The case for funding the IRS isn’t about inventing a new standard of fairness after the fact—it’s about consistently administering the standards we already have. By leaning on “fair share,” Democrats risk making basic enforcement sound like a partisan redistribution project when the stronger, harder-to-dismiss argument is simply this: if Congress imposes a tax, the government should be funded well enough to collect it. Anything less isn’t restraint or a considered policy choice—it’s a quiet exemption for those who can afford to fight.

The Tax Code Is Only As Real As Its Enforcement | Forbes

This Day in Legal History: The Senate Rejects Court-Packing

On July 22, 1937, the United States Senate rejected President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s plan to reorganize—critics said “pack”—the Supreme Court, voting 70 to 20 to send the bill to a quiet death. It was a stinging defeat for a president at the height of his popularity, delivered by his own party, and it settled a constitutional question that still shapes how we think about the independence of the judiciary.

The background was a collision between the New Deal and the Court. Through the mid-1930s, a conservative majority on the Supreme Court had struck down key pieces of Roosevelt’s economic program as unconstitutional. Frustrated after his landslide 1936 reelection, FDR proposed legislation that would have let him appoint a new justice for every sitting justice over the age of seventy—which, not coincidentally, would have allowed him to add up to six new justices and swamp the opposition. He framed it as a matter of efficiency and helping overworked elderly judges, but nobody was fooled; it was a naked attempt to change the Court’s decisions by changing its membership.

The plan backfired, and the reasons are the lesson. Even senators who supported the New Deal recoiled at the precedent—if this president could enlarge the Court to get the rulings he wanted, so could the next one, and the Court’s independence would become a fiction. Meanwhile, the Court itself defused the crisis: in the spring of 1937, Justice Owen Roberts began voting to uphold New Deal legislation, the famous “switch in time that saved nine,” which took some of the urgency out of FDR’s demand. The significance of July 22, 1937 is that it established a durable, if unwritten, constitutional norm—that the size of the Supreme Court is essentially off-limits as a tool for a president to overpower rulings he dislikes. The number nine isn’t in the Constitution, but the bipartisan rebuke of court-packing helped make it feel almost as if it were.

An analysis of the closely watched lawsuit by Meta employees over AI-driven layoffs highlights a hard truth: even when workers suspect an algorithm decided their fate, proving it is enormously difficult. To recap, 26 current and former Meta employees sued, alleging the company’s internal AI tools flagged them for termination because they have disabilities or took protected medical, parental, or family leave. Their theory is mechanically specific: because tools like the “Metamate” system scored employees partly on data such as keystroke activity, workers who were lawfully out on leave generated fewer data points and were disproportionately ranked as low-value. Meta cut roughly 8,000 people—about ten percent of its workforce—and says humans, not machines, made the decisions. Here’s why these cases are so hard to win. Anti-discrimination law generally requires the worker to show the employer’s decision was tainted by a protected characteristic, but the employee usually has almost no visibility into how the AI actually worked—the models, the training data, and the weighting are the company’s closely held secrets. On top of that, many employees have signed arbitration agreements, funneling their claims out of open court and into a private process that’s harder to see into and to appeal. The significance is that this appears to be the first case of its kind against a major U.S. company, and it exposes a growing gap: as employers hand more consequential decisions to opaque algorithms, the legal tools workers have to challenge those decisions—built for an era of human managers—may not be up to the job of proving what the machine did.

Analysis: Meta employees’ lawsuit shows that if AI fires you, proving it is the hard part | Reuters

A split panel of the D.C. Circuit has struck down a long-standing National Labor Relations Board doctrine that protected unions after a business changes hands, ruling that it conflicts with federal labor law. The doctrine at issue is the “successor bar,” and it works like this: when a company is acquired and a new employer takes over, that employer generally cannot challenge or withdraw recognition from the existing union for a reasonable period—about six months—giving the union and workers a window of stability to bargain with their new boss. The court held that this Board-created rule isn’t consistent with the National Labor Relations Act. What makes this ruling bigger than one labor doctrine is the tool the court used to get there. The decision applies the Supreme Court’s 2024 Loper Bright ruling, which overturned the decades-old Chevron doctrine and ended the requirement that courts defer to a federal agency’s reasonable interpretation of an ambiguous statute. Without that deference, the D.C. Circuit felt free to substitute its own reading of the labor law for the NLRB’s. This is exactly the dynamic I wrote about in my Bloomberg column last week in the tax context—the death of Chevron doesn’t erase statutory ambiguity, it just moves the power to resolve it from agencies to courts. The significance is that we’re now watching that shift play out across the administrative state: settled agency doctrines, some decades old, are suddenly vulnerable to being reinterpreted by judges, and here the immediate losers are unions and the workers who counted on a bargaining foothold after a merger.

US court says longstanding NLRB rule on post-merger union bargaining is invalid | Reuters

A federal judge has temporarily blocked the administration from stripping work authorization from tens of thousands of asylum seekers and immigrants with Temporary Protected Status. U.S. District Judge Nathaniel Gorton in Boston sided with a coalition of immigrant-rights groups and labor unions, halting U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services from moving ahead with a set of policies while he weighs a longer-term pause; he said he’ll rule by August 5. Here’s the stakes and the legal frame. A work permit—formally, an employment authorization document—is what lets many immigrants lawfully hold a job while their asylum case or protected status is pending. Yanking it doesn’t just threaten deportation down the line; it immediately jeopardizes people’s livelihoods and their employers’ workforces. The contested policies were designed to implement immigration restrictions Congress enacted last year as part of the administration’s signature tax-and-spending law, the One Big Beautiful Bill Act. The plaintiffs argue USCIS is implementing those provisions in ways that exceed what the law allows and skip required procedures. A temporary block like this one preserves the status quo—keeping people employed—while the court decides whether the government followed the rules. The significance connects to a theme we keep returning to: courts serving as a check on how fast and how far the executive can move in reshaping immigration, insisting that even policies rooted in a real act of Congress still have to be implemented lawfully and with proper process.

US judge blocks Trump administration from stripping immigrants of work permits | Reuters

And finally, in my column for Bloomberg Tax this week, I dig into a self-inflicted mess in California: lawmakers scrambling to rework a business tax-credit cap that they apparently didn’t realize would kneecap Hollywood film studios. My core argument is that California is directionally right to resist subsidy bidding wars, but wrong to rewrite the economics of credits it has already issued after companies have started relying on them.

Here’s what happened. Since 2024, California has capped the total tax reduction a business can take from all its credits at $5 million a year. That cap was set to expire after 2026—right as productions were going to start claiming credits under a newly expanded film incentive the state had just touted as a centerpiece of keeping film jobs in California. Instead, a bill called SB 122 extended the $5 million limit through 2029 and then converts it to the greater of $5 million or 70% of taxes owed. The part that really gets me is the admission underneath it: lawmakers passed a $351.7 billion budget without apparently understanding how this cap would interact with the film credit they’d just enlarged. As one assemblymember candidly put it, “I’m not sure who knew what about what.” It looks like the cap was really aimed at large research-and-development credit stockpiles, and film credits just got caught in the crossfire.

My argument is that the distinction between prospective and retroactive matters enormously here. It’s one thing for California to decide, going forward, that future subsidies will be smaller or conditioned—that’s legitimate fiscal discipline, and I don’t think Hollywood should get to dictate tax policy just by threatening to decamp to Georgia. But it’s another thing entirely to change the timing and practical value of credits after studios have already committed workers, facilities, and financing in reliance on the old rules. When a state does that, it makes itself a less credible counterparty, and it quietly reduces the value of every future incentive it offers, because businesses will start discounting California’s promises for legislative risk. So my prescription is targeted: protect the film credits already awarded under the prior rules, keep a real limit on the big accumulated R&D credits that were the actual target, and replace the blunt across-the-board cap with rules tailored to how these very different credits actually work. California doesn’t have to choose between fiscal discipline and keeping its word—its tax policy can be skeptical, but its promises should still mean something.

California’s Business Tax Credit Cap Needs More Targeted Changes | Bloomberg Tax

This Day in Legal History: The Dodd-Frank Act

On July 21, 2010, President Barack Obama signed the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act, the most sweeping overhaul of American financial regulation since the New Deal. It was a direct response to the 2008 financial crisis—the collapse that wiped out trillions in household wealth, toppled storied institutions like Lehman Brothers, and required massive taxpayer bailouts to keep the banking system from failing entirely.

Dodd-Frank tried to attack the crisis’s root causes on several fronts at once. It created the Financial Stability Oversight Council to watch for systemic risks—the danger that one firm’s failure could cascade through the whole economy—and gave regulators new “resolution authority” to wind down failing giants in an orderly way, an attempt to end the problem of banks being “too big to fail.” It imposed the Volcker Rule, restricting banks from making certain speculative bets with depositors’ money. It brought the shadowy derivatives market under federal oversight. And, in its most visible legacy, it created the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau—a new agency dedicated to policing mortgages, credit cards, and other consumer financial products, born largely from an idea championed by then-professor Elizabeth Warren.

Dodd-Frank has been contested ever since—fought over in rulemaking, trimmed by later legislation, and litigated all the way to the Supreme Court, including a major case over the constitutionality of the CFPB’s structure. But its core significance endures: it represents the country’s considered legal judgment that concentrated financial power, left unchecked, poses a systemic danger, and that the answer is robust administrative regulation. It’s a fitting anniversary to sit alongside today’s news, because so much of what we cover comes back to the same enduring question—how the law should restrain private economic power without strangling the enterprise that power creates.

A federal judge has temporarily paused Paramount Skydance’s roughly $110 billion acquisition of Warner Bros. Discovery, siding for now with a coalition of twelve state attorneys general who sued to stop it. U.S. District Judge Araceli Martínez-Olguín issued a fourteen-day temporary restraining order, finding the deal “likely” violates antitrust law. Here’s the framework. Antitrust law exists to preserve competition, and one of its central tools is blocking mergers that would concentrate too much market power in a single company. The states, led by California, sued on July 13 arguing that combining these two entertainment giants would create a media behemoth with the power to raise prices across film and television and to squeeze rivals. A temporary restraining order is exactly what it sounds like—a short-term freeze to preserve the status quo while the court takes a harder look; the “likely violates” language signals the states cleared the initial bar of showing they’re reasonably likely to succeed. It is not a final ruling that the merger is illegal. The significance is twofold. First, it’s a reminder that even after companies strike a deal, they still have to clear the antitrust gauntlet, and state attorneys general—not just federal enforcers—can be the ones holding the gate. Second, the sheer scale here, a hundred-and-ten-billion-dollar combination of major studios and networks, makes this a marquee test of how aggressively courts will scrutinize consolidation in an industry that shapes what Americans watch.

Judge orders Paramount to temporarily pause Warner Bros. acquisition | Reuters

A federal judge has granted final approval of Anthropic’s $1.5 billion settlement with a class of authors who accused the AI company of misusing their books to train its chatbot Claude—the largest known copyright settlement in U.S. history. The deal works out to roughly $3,000 per work across an estimated 500,000 books, split among the authors and publishers who hold the rights. The legal backstory is important, because it’s more precise than “AI company pays authors.” The now-retired Judge William Alsup, who first handled the case, drew a careful line: he suggested that training AI on lawfully acquired books could qualify as fair use, but found that Anthropic had violated authors’ rights by downloading and storing more than seven million pirated books in a “central library”—copies it obtained illegitimately, regardless of whether they were ultimately used for training. In other words, the core wrong the settlement addresses is the piracy—the acquisition and hoarding of stolen copyrighted works—not simply the act of training itself. The settlement drew objections from some authors who argue it’s too small, overpays the plaintiffs’ attorneys, or wrongly leaves out certain rights holders, and the judge had to weigh those before signing off. The significance is that this sets a real-world price on one flavor of AI’s copyright problem. It doesn’t resolve the biggest open question—whether training on copyrighted material is itself lawful—but it establishes that how you got the training data matters enormously, and that building your library out of pirated books can cost you well over a billion dollars.

US judge approves Anthropic’s $1.5 billion settlement of copyright lawsuit | Reuters

And finally, the Justice Department has announced a civil-rights probe into Harvard University, this time over its financial aid programs. The Department’s Civil Rights Division says it has opened a “compliance review” to determine whether Harvard’s China-based financial aid arrangements discriminate on the basis of national origin by steering aid to foreign—presumably Chinese—students in a way that excludes American citizens. The theory rests on an unusual inversion of civil-rights law. Statutes like Title VI of the Civil Rights Act bar recipients of federal funding from discriminating based on national origin, and they’ve historically been used to protect racial and ethnic minorities. Here the DOJ is deploying that framework to allege discrimination against American-citizen students. The trigger, according to the Department, was an audit of Harvard’s foreign-funding disclosures showing the university has received more than $630 million from sources based in China, some of it allegedly earmarked, through donor restrictions, for aid to particular students. Harvard says it’s reviewing the letter and will engage with the government. The significance is that this is the latest salvo in a sustained campaign against Harvard and other elite universities, which have faced probes and funding threats over everything from admissions to campus protests. Whatever the merits of this specific allegation, the pattern is what’s notable: the machinery of federal civil-rights enforcement being aimed, repeatedly and pointedly, at a handful of institutions the administration has publicly targeted.

US DOJ says it is probing Harvard over financial aid programs | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The Declaration of Sentiments

On July 20, 1848, at the close of the two-day Seneca Falls Convention in upstate New York, roughly a hundred people signed the Declaration of Sentiments—the founding document of the organized women’s rights movement in the United States. Drafted principally by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, it was a deliberate and pointed act of legal argument: Stanton modeled it on the Declaration of Independence, echoing Jefferson’s cadences but adding two words that changed everything—”that all men and women are created equal.”

The genius of the document was to take the nation’s own founding logic and turn it on the exclusion of half the population. It then catalogued, in the form of a bill of particulars against “man” rather than King George, the specific legal disabilities women lived under. Married women had no right to their own property or wages—under the common-law doctrine of coverture, a wife’s legal identity was absorbed into her husband’s. Women could not vote, were barred from most professions and higher education, had almost no rights to their own children in the event of separation, and were governed by laws they had no voice in making. The Declaration listed these as concrete legal grievances, not vague complaints, framing the denial of women’s rights as a violation of the country’s stated principles.

The most controversial demand was the resolution calling for women’s suffrage, which passed only narrowly and with the public support of Frederick Douglass, who attended the convention. The significance of July 20, 1848 is that it launched a legal and political campaign that would take seventy-two years to win the vote, with the Nineteenth Amendment in 1920, and far longer to dismantle coverture and the web of laws built on women’s legal subordination. It’s a reminder that constitutional principles are not self-executing—that “all men are created equal” had to be argued, expanded, and fought for by the people the original text left out.

A federal appeals court has struck down New Jersey’s ban on assault firearms and high-capacity magazines, the first time any federal appeals court has invalidated a state assault-weapons ban. Sitting en banc, the Philadelphia-based Third Circuit ruled 10-5 that the state’s prohibition on semi-automatic rifles—not just AR-15s, but the whole category—violates the Second Amendment, as does its ban on magazines holding more than ten rounds. The reasoning flows from the Supreme Court’s recent framework, which asks whether a gun regulation is consistent with the nation’s historical tradition of firearms regulation; the majority concluded these bans are not. What makes this a genuinely big deal is the split it creates. Just last week, a different federal appeals court upheld Illinois’s ban on semi-automatic weapons—so we now have appeals courts squarely disagreeing on whether these bans are constitutional. That kind of circuit split is precisely the condition that draws the Supreme Court in, and the Court is already poised to take up whether bans on semi-automatic rifles violate the Second Amendment. The significance is that a question affecting roughly a dozen states with similar laws is now barreling toward a definitive answer. For the moment, New Jersey’s ban is unenforceable as to these weapons, but the durability of that outcome—and of assault-weapons bans nationwide—now depends on what the Supreme Court does next.

US appeals court declares New Jersey’s ban on assault rifles unconstitutional | Reuters

A federal judge has ruled that the Trump administration cannot rely on a White House budget-office regulation to cancel billions of dollars in grants simply because those grants no longer match its priorities. U.S. District Judge Indira Talwani in Boston sided with a coalition of Democratic-led states, rejecting the administration’s claim that a clause in Office of Management and Budget regulations gave it authority to revoke funding whenever an agency’s focus shifts. Here’s the underlying principle. When Congress appropriates money for a program and an agency awards grants under it, the government generally can’t just take that money back on a whim—grant recipients have relied on it, and the terms for termination are limited. The administration’s theory was that an OMB regulation let it terminate grants it deemed “inconsistent with agency priorities,” effectively a roving power to defund causes it disfavors. Judge Talwani found the regulation didn’t authorize anything of the kind. The significance connects to a theme we keep returning to: the limits of executive power over money that Congress has already directed. The administration has repeatedly tried to redirect or withhold funds to reshape policy without going through Congress, and courts have repeatedly pushed back. This ruling reinforces that a president’s control over federal spending, though real, is bounded—an agency can’t retroactively pull grants just because political priorities changed.

Trump administration cannot cancel grants for disfavored causes, US judge rules | Reuters

A federal judge has declined to block Meta from laying off 26 employees who claim the company’s AI tools singled them out for termination because they have disabilities or took medical leave. U.S. District Judge William Orrick in Oakland ruled that the workers hadn’t shown the “irreparable harm” needed for an emergency order halting the layoffs, which are set to begin July 22, and that the merits of their novel claims will be decided in private arbitration. The allegations are striking. The plaintiffs—engineers, managers, researchers, and designers suing anonymously—say Meta used a suite of internal AI systems to score and rank employees onto a termination list, including an assistant called “Metamate,” an employee-trained “second brain” that tracked workers’ communications, and a productivity score drawn from scanning keystrokes, screen content, emails, and browser history. Meta denies wrongdoing and insists humans, not algorithms, made the layoff decisions. This is a frontier legal question: when an employer uses AI to help decide who gets cut, and those tools allegedly disadvantage people with disabilities or on leave, is that illegal discrimination? The judge’s refusal to block the layoffs was procedural—losing a job usually isn’t “irreparable” because money damages can fix it—but he pointedly noted the case raises “serious questions” and said he might reconsider based on more evidence about how AI was actually used. The significance is that algorithmic management is colliding with anti-discrimination law, and courts are just beginning to work out who’s accountable when the machine does the ranking.

US judge won’t block Meta from laying off workers who filed AI discrimination lawsuit | Reuters

And finally, the IRS’s top lawyer has been forced out after refusing White House demands that would have drawn him into tax audits of particular taxpayers. Ken Kies, who served as the agency’s acting chief counsel and as Treasury’s assistant secretary for tax policy, told administration officials their requests would violate a federal law that bars the president, the vice president, and other White House officials from ordering the IRS to conduct or terminate an audit of any specific taxpayer. That statute is a direct legacy of Watergate-era abuses, when presidents tried to sic the tax agency on their enemies, and tax professionals regard it as the single most important safeguard against weaponizing the tax code. Kies apparently stood on that law—and lost his job for it. The story connects directly to one we covered recently: the administration’s $1.8 billion “anti-weaponization” settlement that would have given the president and his family immunity from IRS audits, which a federal judge struck down as a collusive arrangement with no basis in law. The significance is about the fragile independence of tax administration. The protections that keep audits free from political direction only work if the officials inside the agency are willing to enforce them—and when the person who says “no” to an unlawful demand is pushed out, it sends a chilling message to everyone who remains.

Top US tax lawyer forced out after White House clash over tax audits | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The National Minimum Drinking Age Act

On July 17, 1984, President Ronald Reagan signed the National Minimum Drinking Age Act, the law that effectively set the drinking age at 21 across the entire country. What makes the Act a fixture of law-school classrooms isn’t the policy itself—it’s the clever, and constitutionally fraught, mechanism Congress used to achieve it.

Here’s the problem Congress faced. Setting a drinking age is a classic exercise of state police power; the federal government has no general authority to tell states how old someone must be to buy a beer. So Congress didn’t order the states to do anything. Instead, it reached for its spending power. The Act directed that any state which failed to raise its drinking age to 21 would lose a percentage of its federal highway funds. States remained technically “free” to keep a lower drinking age—they’d just forfeit a slice of the highway money they depended on. Within a few years, every state had fallen into line.

South Dakota challenged the law, and in the 1987 case South Dakota v. Dole, the Supreme Court upheld it. The Court laid out the framework that still governs conditional federal spending: conditions must be unambiguous, related to a federal interest, not otherwise unconstitutional, and—critically—must not be so coercive that they amount to “compulsion” rather than mere “encouragement.” The Court decided that losing about five percent of highway funds was just mild pressure, not coercion. That last piece became enormously important decades later. In the 2012 healthcare decision, NFIB v. Sebelius, the Court for the first time found that a spending condition had crossed the line into unconstitutional coercion, when Congress threatened states with the loss of all their Medicaid funding. The significance of July 17, 1984 is that a law about drinking age quietly established the constitutional playbook for how the federal government leverages its money to steer state policy—and where the limits of that leverage finally lie.

A federal appeals court has reinstated the Pentagon’s policy requiring journalists to be accompanied by a government escort inside the building, handing the Trump administration a win in its press-access fight with The New York Times. A lower-court judge had blocked the escort requirement in June, but a three-judge panel of the D.C. Circuit put it back in place. The legal reasoning is worth parsing. The Times argued the escort rule was retaliation against the press in violation of the First Amendment. The panel disagreed—at least for now—finding the Pentagon likely to succeed on its argument that a “generally applicable escort requirement” isn’t a “sufficiently adverse action” to support a First Amendment retaliation claim. In other words, because the rule applies to all reporters rather than singling out particular outlets or viewpoints, the court was skeptical it amounts to unconstitutional retaliation. This is an interim ruling on a preliminary question, not a final decision; the Times says it looks forward to litigating the merits on an expedited basis. The significance is part of a broader pattern we’ve tracked this week—friction between the administration and the press over access and newsgathering. Here the court signaled that neutral, across-the-board restrictions on where reporters can roam are harder to attack than targeted ones, even as the deeper question of press access to the government remains very much alive.

US appeals court keeps in place Pentagon’s escort policy for journalists | Reuters

A federal judge has warned the Justice Department after government lawyers cited a court decision that does not exist—an apparent AI “hallucination”—in an immigration detention case. In the Michigan matter, DOJ lawyers argued that the Sixth Circuit had barred courts from second-guessing an immigration judge’s bond decision, and cited a case, Taylor v. Hott, that simply isn’t real. Notably, the judge who caught it was appointed by President Trump, and he observed that fabricated AI citations have fueled “a rash of cases” clogging the courts with fake authorities. If this sounds familiar, it should—we covered a nearly identical episode on Monday, when the Eleventh Circuit sanctioned a private lawyer for the same mistake. The rule is the same regardless of who commits it: when you sign a brief, you certify that its legal contentions are grounded in real, existing law, and generative AI tools routinely invent confident, well-formatted citations to cases that were never decided. What makes this one notable is that it’s the government’s own lawyers doing it, in a case about detaining a human being. The judge declined to impose sanctions but issued a pointed warning that future filings must not contain nonexistent authorities. The significance is that the AI-hallucination problem has reached the Justice Department itself, and the courts’ patience—already thin—is not going to extend just because it’s the government at the podium.

US judge warns Justice Department about AI use in immigration case | Reuters

The Trump administration is reviving the “public charge” rule, a policy that can deny green cards to immigrants deemed likely to rely on public benefits. The rule appeared in the Federal Register on Thursday, will be formally published July 20, and takes effect September 18. Here’s the concept. “Public charge” is a very old idea in immigration law—the government has long been able to refuse admission or permanent residency to someone likely to become primarily dependent on government support. The fight is over how broadly to define it. The version being revived, first adopted in 2019, dramatically expanded the definition to sweep in anyone who received a government benefit—things like food stamps, Medicaid, or housing vouchers—for more than twelve months in any three-year period. The Biden administration abandoned that broad approach in 2022 and narrowed the grounds for denial; now the expansive version is back. Immigrant advocates warn of a powerful “chilling effect” beyond the green-card applicants themselves: the fear that using benefits could jeopardize their status leads people—including in mixed-status families with citizen children—to avoid the doctor, skip food assistance, or hesitate to file taxes. The significance is that a technical change to the definition of a single term can reshape the behavior of millions, deterring lawful use of public programs out of fear it will be held against someone later.

US to revive rule that could deny green cards to immigrants using public benefits | Reuters

And finally, DraftKings has sued the city of Philadelphia after receiving a subpoena, arguing that the city’s consumer-protection ordinance is preempted by Pennsylvania state law. The dispute is a clean illustration of a recurring structural question: who gets to regulate what. Gambling in Pennsylvania is heavily regulated at the state level, through a comprehensive statutory scheme and a state gaming authority. Philadelphia enacted its own ordinance and issued DraftKings a subpoena as part of an investigation into potential violations. DraftKings’ core argument is preemption—the principle that when a higher level of government has occupied a field, a lower one can’t layer on conflicting or duplicative rules of its own. The company contends the city ordinance essentially copies Pennsylvania law, and that gambling regulation belongs to the state, not the city, so Philadelphia lacks the authority to investigate and enforce in this space. This is the same preemption logic we’ve seen play out between the federal government and states—here it’s just one rung down, between a state and one of its cities, governed by state law and the limits of municipal power. The significance is both immediate and broad: immediately, it’s a bid to quash a subpoena and fend off a city investigation; more broadly, it tests how much room local governments have to police national sports-betting companies when the state has already claimed the field.

DraftKings sues Philadelphia after receiving subpoena | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The White House Tapes Revealed

On July 16, 1973, before the Senate Watergate Committee and a live national television audience, a former White House aide named Alexander Butterfield answered a question that changed American history. Asked whether there was any kind of recording system in the White House, Butterfield confirmed that President Nixon had installed a secret, voice-activated taping system that recorded his conversations and phone calls in the Oval Office and elsewhere. In a single answer, the entire Watergate investigation pivoted.

Until that moment, the inquiry into the Watergate break-in and cover-up had largely been a contest of competing testimony—Nixon’s word against that of his former counsel John Dean. The existence of the tapes meant there was now an objective record of what the President had actually said and known. Prosecutors and Congress immediately sought them; Nixon refused to hand them over, asserting executive privilege—the claim that a president’s confidential communications are shielded from disclosure. That standoff produced one of the most important separation-of-powers decisions in American law.

In United States v. Nixon, decided a year later in July 1974, a unanimous Supreme Court rejected the President’s claim of absolute privilege. The Court recognized that executive privilege exists and has real constitutional footing, but held that it is not unqualified—that it must yield to the demonstrated, specific need for evidence in a criminal proceeding. No person, the decision made clear, not even the president, is above the ordinary processes of the law. Nixon turned over the tapes, one of which captured him plotting to obstruct the investigation, and he resigned days later. The significance of July 16, 1973 is that a single truthful answer under oath set in motion the enforcement of a foundational principle: that presidential power operates within the law, and that the courts, not the president, decide the limits of privilege.

Todd Blanche’s bid to become attorney general is hanging in the balance after a tense confirmation hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Blanche, who has been acting attorney general since President Trump fired Pam Bondi in April and who previously served as Trump’s personal criminal defense lawyer, spent hours fielding pointed questions—including a telling moment when he said he “is” the president’s lawyer before catching himself and correcting it to “was.” The awkwardness captures the central concern: whether a former personal attorney to the president can run the Justice Department as a neutral servant of the law rather than of the man who appointed him. Senators pressed him on the now-defunct anti-weaponization fund, the handling of the Epstein files, and Trump’s pardons for January 6 defendants. The math is what makes this precarious. The recent death of Senator Lindsey Graham left committee Republicans with just one vote to spare, and Senator John Cornyn—a lame duck—has said he isn’t sold, meaning Blanche’s advancement may rest largely in Cornyn’s hands. The significance is about the independence of federal law enforcement: confirming a president’s former defense lawyer as attorney general tests whether the Justice Department’s prosecutorial power will be insulated from the president’s personal interests, and the narrow margin means a single Republican could decide the outcome.

Blanche to face Senate grilling in bid to be Trump’s attorney general | Reuters

The Senate has confirmed a second Florida state appeals judge who ruled in President Trump’s favor in his defamation suit against the Pulitzer Prize Board, giving him a lifetime seat on the federal bench. The vote was 51-46 along party lines to place Chief Judge Jeffrey Kuntz on the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of Florida. Here’s the connection that drew scrutiny. Kuntz sat on the Florida appeals court panel that ruled for Trump on a personal-jurisdiction question, allowing his defamation case against the Pulitzer Board to move forward—and Kuntz wrote that panel ruling. He is now the second judge from that same panel to be nominated by Trump and confirmed to a lifetime federal judgeship. At his hearing, Kuntz defended his decision not to recuse from the Trump matter. The significance is about judicial independence and the appearance of a quid pro quo. There is nothing unusual about elevating state appellate judges to the federal bench, and a favorable ruling doesn’t by itself prove anything improper. But when a president rewards judges who ruled for him personally with lifetime appointments, it raises an uncomfortable question about incentives—whether judges hoping for advancement might feel subtle pressure to favor the person doing the appointing—and that perception, critics argue, can corrode public confidence in an impartial judiciary even where each individual ruling was defensible on the merits.

2nd Florida judge who ruled for Trump in Pulitzer case confirmed to federal bench | Reuters

And finally, the Federal Trade Commission and the Ohio State Bar Association have thrown their support behind an Ohio Supreme Court proposal to loosen the American Bar Association’s long-standing grip on who gets to become a lawyer. The proposal would let graduates of non-ABA-accredited law schools sit for the Ohio bar exam and would move toward a state-run accreditation process. Here’s the structure worth understanding. In most states, you generally can’t take the bar exam unless you graduated from a law school the ABA has accredited—which effectively makes the ABA the national gatekeeper of legal education. The FTC’s objection is framed in competition terms: it argues the ABA’s accreditation standards “go beyond what is reasonably necessary” to ensure lawyers are prepared, and that restricting the supply of lawyers this way may boost incumbent lawyers’ pay while raising costs and reducing access for ordinary people who need legal help. Ohio isn’t alone—Florida and Texas have already amended their rules so the ABA no longer has the final say, and Tennessee is weighing a similar move. The significance is a real shift in how the profession polices its own entry. Supporters see it as breaking up a monopoly to expand access to legal careers and legal services; critics worry that weakening a uniform national standard could erode the quality and consistency of legal training. Either way, the ABA’s decades-long role as the sole gatekeeper is eroding, state by state.

State bar, FTC back Ohio proposal to limit ABA role in lawyer admissions | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The Housing Act of 1949

On July 15, 1949, President Harry Truman signed the Housing Act of 1949, a centerpiece of his “Fair Deal” and one of the most ambitious housing laws in American history. Its stated goal was breathtaking in scope: “a decent home and a suitable living environment for every American family.” To get there, the Act poured federal money into public housing construction, expanded federal mortgage insurance, and created the urban renewal program to clear and redevelop so-called “slum” neighborhoods.

The Act’s legacy is genuinely double-edged, and it’s worth telling honestly. On one hand, it expanded homeownership for millions and built hundreds of thousands of units of public housing. On the other, its implementation became one of the great engines of racial segregation in the twentieth century. Urban renewal too often meant bulldozing established Black neighborhoods—critics bitterly renamed it “Negro removal”—and the public housing built in their place was frequently segregated by design and concentrated in already-poor areas. Meanwhile the federal mortgage machinery it fed continued the practice of redlining, steering the benefits of homeownership toward white families and away from Black ones.

That mixed legacy is why the Housing Act belongs in a legal-history conversation about civil rights. The same federal government that would, within a few years, order schools desegregated in Brown v. Board of Education was, through its housing policy, actively entrenching residential segregation—and residential segregation is what makes school segregation so durable, because in America where you live largely determines where you go to school. The story of July 15, 1949 is a reminder that the law’s effects depend enormously on how it’s carried out: a statute promising a decent home for every family became, in practice, a tool that shaped the segregated geography we’re still litigating over today.

Todd Blanche faced a high-stakes Senate Judiciary Committee hearing today in his bid to become attorney general on a permanent basis. Blanche has been acting attorney general since President Trump fired Pam Bondi in April, and before joining the Justice Department he served as Trump’s personal criminal defense lawyer—a background that sits at the center of the concerns about him. The confirmation process exists because the Constitution’s Appointments Clause requires the Senate to advise and consent on the nation’s top law-enforcement officer, and the attorney general is supposed to serve the United States, not the president personally. That tension drove the questioning: senators pressed Blanche on the Department’s $1.8 billion “anti-weaponization” fund, its handling of the Jeffrey Epstein files, and its prosecutions of figures perceived as Trump’s political enemies, including former FBI Director James Comey and New York Attorney General Letitia James. The significance is about the independence of the Justice Department. An attorney general who was recently the president’s private defense attorney raises the question of whether federal prosecutorial power will be wielded neutrally or as an instrument of the president’s interests. With a pair of undecided Republicans—Senators Cornyn and Tillis—holding real leverage, the hearing was Blanche’s chance to reassure a narrowly divided Senate, and most observers still expect him to be confirmed by a slim margin.

Blanche to face Senate grilling in bid to be Trump’s attorney general | Reuters

Two U.S.-based advocacy groups have sued the Trump administration, arguing that its sanctions targeting the International Criminal Court violate the First Amendment. The groups—Democracy for the Arab World Now and the Taxpayer Alliance Against Genocide—are challenging the February 2025 executive order under which the administration has sanctioned ICC judges, prosecutors, and Palestinian human rights organizations, and which officials pledged this week to expand. The free-speech theory is the key. The plaintiffs say the sanctions regime is so broad that they have stopped doing constitutionally protected things—filing submissions with the ICC and coordinating advocacy with sanctioned people, like the U.N. special rapporteur for Palestine—out of fear that doing so could expose them to fines or even prison. In First Amendment law, that’s a classic “chilling effect”: when a law is vague or sweeping enough that people self-censor protected speech to avoid the risk of penalty, the law itself can be unconstitutional even before anyone is actually punished. There’s notable precedent here: a similar Trump order in 2020 was blocked by a judge who found it likely violated the First Amendment, before the Biden administration rescinded it in 2021. The significance is a direct clash between the executive’s broad power over foreign affairs and sanctions on one side, and Americans’ right to speak, associate, and petition on the other. Three ICC judges have separately sued over the same sanctions, so this order is now being attacked on multiple fronts.

Trump’s ICC order violates free speech, advocacy groups say in lawsuit | Reuters

A federal appeals court has ended more than sixty years of federal oversight of the Concordia Parish School Board in Louisiana, lifting one of the desegregation orders that dates back to the Civil Rights era. The Fifth Circuit’s decision hands a win to the Trump administration, which has pushed to wind down these long-running cases—a striking reversal for a Justice Department that spent decades on the other side, fighting to enforce them. Here’s the legal framework. After Brown v. Board of Education, hundreds of Southern school districts were placed under federal court supervision and ordered to dismantle segregation. A district can be released from that oversight when a court finds it has achieved “unitary status”—meaning it has eliminated the vestiges of segregation, to the extent practicable, in areas like student assignment, faculty hiring, facilities, and discipline. The dispute in cases like this one is whether that’s really been accomplished. Louisiana officials argue the orders are relics of a bygone era and no longer needed. Civil rights advocates and some parents counter that the vestiges persist—in racial disparities in student discipline, access to advanced academic programs, and teacher hiring—and that lifting oversight removes a crucial tool for addressing them. The significance is part of a broader push to close out Civil Rights-era decrees, and it raises a hard question: whether these districts have genuinely outgrown the need for supervision, or whether ending it prematurely risks letting old patterns quietly reassert themselves.

Appeals court ends US oversight of Louisiana school system related to desegregation mandate | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The Sedition Act of 1798

On July 14, 1798, Congress passed the Sedition Act, the most notorious of the four laws known collectively as the Alien and Sedition Acts. The Sedition Act made it a federal crime to write, print, utter, or publish “any false, scandalous and malicious writing” against the government of the United States, the Congress, or the President—with the intent to defame them or bring them into disrepute. In plain terms, it criminalized criticism of the government.

The context was a Federalist administration, under President John Adams, gripped by fear of France and of domestic dissent, and eager to silence the opposition press aligned with Thomas Jefferson’s Republicans. And that’s exactly how it was used. Federal prosecutors went after Republican newspaper editors and even a sitting congressman, securing convictions for the crime of harsh political speech. Notably, the Act was written to expire in 1801—conveniently, the moment Adams’s term would end—so that it could be wielded against his critics but would not outlive his own hold on power.

The reaction was fierce and consequential. Jefferson and James Madison drafted the Kentucky and Virginia Resolutions arguing the Act was unconstitutional, and the ensuing backlash helped sweep Jefferson into the presidency in 1800; once in office, he pardoned those convicted under it. The Sedition Act was never tested at the Supreme Court, but history rendered its verdict. More than a century and a half later, in New York Times v. Sullivan, the Court looked back and declared that the Act’s assault on free expression had been repudiated “in the court of history,” using it as a touchstone for modern First Amendment law. The lesson of July 14, 1798 endures: laws that punish criticism of the government are almost always tools of the powerful against their critics—and a free press is most necessary precisely when the state would prefer it silent.

Federal prosecutors have issued subpoenas seeking to compel four New York Times journalists to testify before a Manhattan grand jury, part of a leak investigation into the paper’s reporting on security concerns surrounding President Trump’s flight on the new Qatari-donated Air Force One. Federal agents delivered some of the subpoenas to the reporters’ homes. Here’s the legal terrain. There is no absolute federal reporter’s privilege—the Supreme Court held decades ago that the First Amendment doesn’t categorically shield journalists from grand jury subpoenas—but the Justice Department has long operated under internal guidelines that made going after reporters a last resort. Those guardrails matter here, because in 2025 Attorney General Pam Bondi rescinded the Biden-era policy that had sharply limited subpoenas against journalists, restoring broader authority to pursue them. The Times says it will fight, and can ask a court to quash the subpoenas as overbroad, issued in bad faith, or violating the First Amendment. The significance is the pressure this puts on newsgathering: when the government can subpoena reporters to unmask their sources, sources stop talking, and the kind of national-security reporting at issue here gets harder to do. Press-freedom groups warn this administration has reached for subpoenas and search warrants against journalists—at the Times, the Post, and the Wall Street Journal—more freely than its predecessors.

Explainer: Can prosecutors compel New York Times journalists to testify in leak probe? | Reuters

A federal judge has voided President Trump’s roughly $1.78 billion settlement with the IRS, delivering a scathing rebuke and referring his lawyers for possible discipline. The backstory is unusual. Trump sued his own administration in January over the leak of his tax returns, and by late May had reached a deal with the IRS to create an “anti-weaponization” fund and to “forever bar” the government from any action related to his past tax returns—protection extending to his family and businesses. U.S. District Judge Kathleen Williams found the whole thing was a setup. The core legal defect is the absence of what courts call adverseness. Federal courts can only decide genuine “cases or controversies”—real disputes between opposing parties. Here, Judge Williams wrote, “there was never adverseness between the Parties; there was never a case or controversy; and there was never a question as to who would prevail,” because Trump was effectively suing himself, with his own Justice Department on the other side agreeing to lose. She found the case was brought for an improper purpose: to get a court’s stamp of legitimacy on a settlement with no basis in law or fact. She sanctioned Trump’s attorneys and referred one, Alejandro Brito, to the Florida bar, and suggested Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche should face discipline too. The significance is a court refusing to be used as a rubber stamp—insisting that its legitimacy can’t be borrowed to bless a collusive deal dressed up as litigation.

US judge voids Trump’s settlement with IRS | Reuters

A federal appeals court has revived more than 500 private lawsuits against Kenvue, the maker of Tylenol, alleging that acetaminophen use during pregnancy caused autism and ADHD in children—and here it’s worth being clear about the science before the law. There is no firm scientific evidence that Tylenol causes autism or ADHD. The most rigorous recent research, including a large Swedish sibling-comparison study of millions of children, found no causal link once you control for genetic and environmental factors shared within families; mainstream medical bodies continue to regard acetaminophen as one of the safer pain and fever options in pregnancy, and untreated high fevers carry their own real risks. So this ruling is not a finding that Tylenol is dangerous. What the Second Circuit actually decided was narrower and procedural: that the trial judge had wrongly excluded the plaintiffs’ expert witnesses. Under the rules governing expert testimony, judges act as “gatekeepers,” admitting expert opinion only if it rests on reliable methodology. The district court had tossed the plaintiffs’ experts as unreliable; the appeals court, per Judge Guido Calabresi, said their methods reflected approaches other scientists use and amounted to “acceptable interpretations of scientific evidence where scientists may, and in fact do, disagree.” Crucially, the court stressed it was not deciding whether Tylenol actually causes these conditions. The significance is about who weighs contested science—the ruling lets juries, not just judges, hear the dispute, which is a real win for the plaintiffs procedurally even though the underlying causation case remains, on the current evidence, weak.

US appeals court revives private lawsuits linking Tylenol to autism, ADHD | Reuters

And finally, in my column for Bloomberg Tax this week, I take on a counterintuitive idea: that big corporate taxpayers may come to miss the boring, predictable world of administrative tax law now that the Supreme Court has overruled Chevron deference. My argument, in short, is that a weaker IRS and Treasury is not the unalloyed win a lot of multinationals assume it is.

Here’s the setup. For forty years, under Chevron, courts deferred to a federal agency’s reasonable interpretation of an ambiguous statute. With Chevron gone, courts no longer have to defer to Treasury’s reading of the tax code just because the statute is vague and the agency has expertise. A lot of corporate taxpayers cheered that—less agency power sounds like more freedom. But my point is that killing Chevron did nothing to remove the underlying ambiguity in the tax code; it just moved the job of resolving that ambiguity to a different desk. And there are only two other desks it can land on, and I don’t love either one for a company that wants predictability.

The first desk belongs to the courts. If Treasury can’t issue as many binding, prospective rules, then more of these questions get resolved through litigation—case by case, on particular records, often years after the transactions are done. Courts are built to handle controversies, not to administer a global corporate tax system. The Coca-Cola transfer-pricing fight is the stress test I point to: a company may win a great refund that way, but you can’t organize a multinational’s affairs around the hope that every ambiguous question turns into a bespoke judicial adventure. The second desk belongs to Congress, which is the more democratically satisfying answer—Congress writes the code and is politically accountable. But in practice Congress moves slowly and episodically, usually only when tax changes ride along on some bigger budget deal. By the time Congress fixes an international tax problem, the business model that created it has been reorganized twice and pivoted to something involving AI.

So the core of my argument is that corporate taxpayers need to distinguish between a useful litigation win and a stable legal environment—those two things don’t always travel together. A bad but clear rule can be modeled and planned around; an ambiguous rule, as I put it, isn’t really a rule, it’s a threat in the shape of a Treasury notice. My prescription is that Congress should make clearer, more deliberate delegations where technical administration is unavoidable—transfer pricing, international tax, anti-abuse rules—and that Treasury should do a post-Chevron audit of its own regulations to flag where the code is asking too much of administration and too little of legislation. Because the real choice here isn’t between IRS power and taxpayer freedom. It’s between prospective administration and retroactive improvisation—and multinationals may get their wish, see the IRS diminished, and then find themselves stuck with rules everyone knows are broken but no one can fix.

Big Corporate Taxpayers Need More Clarity in a Post-Chevron World | Bloomberg Tax

This Day in Legal History: The Northwest Ordinance

On July 13, 1787, the Confederation Congress adopted the Northwest Ordinance, one of the most important laws in American history—and one passed under the Articles of Confederation, before the Constitution even existed. Its formal subject was dry: how to govern the vast territory north and west of the Ohio River. But in answering that question, it set precedents that shaped the entire future of the nation.

The Ordinance did several remarkable things at once. It created an orderly process by which frontier territories would move through stages of self-government and eventually be admitted to the Union as new states—fully equal to the original thirteen, not as colonies or dependencies. That single principle, that new territory would become co-equal states rather than subordinate possessions, distinguished the American project from every empire that had come before. The Ordinance also guaranteed a set of rights to settlers in the territory: freedom of religion, the right to trial by jury, habeas corpus, and proportionate representation—a bill of rights in miniature, adopted before the Bill of Rights.

And in its most consequential provision, Article 6, the Ordinance banned slavery throughout the Northwest Territory—the future states of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and part of Minnesota. It was the first time the national government prohibited slavery in a defined territory, drawing a line that would harden over the decades into the divide between free states and slave states, and setting up the bitter fights over the expansion of slavery that culminated in the Civil War. The significance of July 13, 1787 is that a Congress often dismissed as weak and ineffectual produced a statute of enduring genius—a template for national growth, an early charter of liberties, and a foundational stand, however partial, against slavery.

Apple has sued OpenAI in federal court in Northern California, accusing the AI company of a systematic scheme to steal its trade secrets in order to break into consumer hardware. It’s a striking reversal for two companies that struck a high-profile partnership back in 2024. Apple’s complaint alleges misappropriation of trade secrets and breach of contract, claiming OpenAI leaned on former Apple employees—more than 400 now work there—along with aggressive recruiting and supplier relationships to vacuum up confidential information. Apple points a finger at OpenAI’s hardware chief, a former Apple vice president, alleging he told job candidates still employed at Apple to bring “actual parts” to interviews for “show and tell,” and that another departing employee downloaded dozens of files on unreleased products. Trade-secret law protects confidential business information that gives a company a competitive edge, and the case will turn on whether OpenAI crossed the line from lawfully hiring talent—people are allowed to change jobs and use their general skills—into unlawfully exploiting Apple’s protected secrets. Given the two firms’ size and the stakes in the AI hardware race, this is shaping up to be a marquee tech dispute.

Apple sues OpenAI alleging misappropriation of trade secrets, court records show | Reuters

A federal judge has ruled that disabled Justice Department immigration lawyers can keep working from home while they press a lawsuit challenging the department’s return-to-office mandate. Two attorney-advisers at the immigration courts won a preliminary injunction from Judge Patricia Tolliver Giles in the Eastern District of Virginia, temporarily halting the no-telework policy as applied to them. Their claim rests on the Rehabilitation Act, the federal statute requiring the government, as an employer, to provide reasonable accommodations to employees with disabilities—here, remote work they say is necessary to protect their health. The administration’s broad directive ordering federal workers back to the office full-time collided with that individualized duty. A preliminary injunction isn’t a final ruling; it means the plaintiffs showed they’re likely to win and would suffer irreparable harm without relief. The significance is the tension it spotlights: a government-wide, one-size-fits-all workplace policy still has to bend to statutory disability-accommodation rights, and this ruling suggests courts will enforce that limit even against the executive’s management of its own workforce.

US judge says DOJ lawyers can work from home pending lawsuit over telework policy | Reuters

The administration extended work permits for hundreds of thousands of immigrants with Temporary Protected Status from Haiti and six other countries just hours before they were set to expire. It’s worth being precise about what actually changed. TPS is a humanitarian designation that lets people from countries in crisis live and work here legally. Last month the Supreme Court cleared the way for the administration to end TPS for Haitians and Syrians—but what was extended here is narrower: the validity of the employment-authorization documents that workers and employers rely on for I-9 and E-Verify purposes. Haitians got two extra weeks, to July 24; those from Syria, Ethiopia, Somalia, Yemen, South Sudan, and Myanmar got one. The underlying TPS designations remain in legal limbo, awaiting district-court orders expected at the end of July. The significance is both humanitarian and practical: the reprieve came as some employers had already begun terminating these workers, and it underscores how much uncertainty TPS holders are living under—their ability to keep a job now measured in days and weeks while the courts sort out their status.

US extends work permits for Haitians, other immigrants with Temporary Protected Status | Reuters

And finally, a federal appeals court has sanctioned a lawyer for filing a brief riddled with fake, AI-generated case citations—the latest entry in a fast-growing genre. The Eleventh Circuit rebuked the attorney with a line destined for law-review footnotes: “Whatever the merits of artificial intelligence, it is no substitute for actual intelligence.” The problem is by now familiar: generative AI tools will, with total confidence, invent case names, citations, and quotations that do not exist—”hallucinations”—and lawyers who paste that output into filings without checking are presenting fictional law to a court. That breaches a basic professional duty. Under Rule 11 and the courts’ inherent authority, attorneys must certify that their legal contentions are grounded in real, existing law, and courts have been escalating the consequences—reimbursed fees, fines, and public reprimands—as the same mistake keeps recurring despite repeated warnings. The significance isn’t that AI is banned from law practice; it plainly isn’t. It’s that the tool doesn’t dilute the lawyer’s responsibility one bit. You can use AI to draft, but you still have to verify, because when you sign a brief you vouch for every citation in it—and “the computer made it up” is not a defense.

US appeals court rebukes lawyer over fake, hallucinated case citations | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The Scopes “Monkey Trial” Opens

On July 10, 1925, the trial of John T. Scopes opened in the sweltering courthouse of Dayton, Tennessee. Scopes, a young high school teacher, stood accused of violating the state’s Butler Act, which made it a crime to teach human evolution in public schools. The case became one of the most famous trials in American history—less because of what happened to Scopes, who was a willing test defendant recruited by the ACLU, than because of the collision it staged between two national figures and two worldviews.

On one side was William Jennings Bryan, three-time presidential candidate and champion of the anti-evolution cause, who argued for the prosecution. On the other was Clarence Darrow, the era’s most celebrated defense attorney, who took the case to defend academic freedom and the teaching of science. The trial’s most dramatic moment came when Darrow called Bryan himself to the stand as an expert on the Bible and cross-examined him mercilessly on its literal interpretation. Scopes was convicted and fined $100—a verdict later overturned on a technicality—so in the narrow legal sense, the anti-evolution side won.

But the significance of Scopes lies elsewhere. It was one of the first trials broadcast live on national radio, a spectacle that turned a local misdemeanor into a referendum on faith, science, education, and the reach of the state into the classroom. It sharpened the enduring constitutional questions—about what government may compel or forbid teachers to teach—that would return decades later in cases like Epperson v. Arkansas, which finally struck down anti-evolution laws under the First Amendment. Scopes is a reminder that some trials matter less for their judgments than for the arguments they force a country to have out loud.

The Justice Department has sued Maryland, alleging that the state’s sanctuary policies unlawfully obstruct federal immigration enforcement. The suit targets Maryland’s Community Trust Act, which limits how state and local officials may cooperate with federal immigration authorities—for example, by declining to honor routine detainer requests to hand people over. The government’s core theory is preemption: it argues that under the Supremacy Clause, states can’t erect policies that interfere with federal immigration law. Maryland and Attorney General Anthony Brown will counter that states have no obligation to affirmatively help enforce federal law—a principle known as anti-commandeering. This is the twenty-first such suit the administration has filed against sanctuary jurisdictions, part of a coordinated campaign, and it teed up the recurring constitutional question of where federal supremacy ends and a state’s right to withhold its own resources begins.

DOJ sues Maryland, alleges state policies interfere with immigration crackdown | Reuters

Proposed rule changes would require greater public disclosure when federal grand juries refuse to indict—an unusually pointed reform prompted by a string of rejected charges. Grand juries almost never decline to indict; the old line is that a prosecutor could get one to “indict a ham sandwich.” Yet over the past year, grand juries in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Washington rejected charges in politically sensitive cases, including a failed effort to indict six sitting members of Congress. In response, the federal court in Chicago adopted a rule filing a redacted version of the foreperson’s rejection form on the public docket, and D.C.’s chief judge ordered that the judiciary be notified whenever a grand jury turns the administration down. Because grand jury proceedings are ordinarily secret, “no true bill” outcomes usually vanish without a trace. The significance is transparency: these measures would let the public see how often the government tries to charge people and fails—turning the grand jury’s quiet power to say no into something visible.

Proposed rules call for DOJ disclosure when grand juries reject indictments | Reuters

The elite law firm Simpson Thacher & Bartlett is heading into a rare legal-malpractice trial in Florida next week, defending against claims seeking more than $200 million. The case comes from former Patriot National CEO Steven Mariano, who alleges the firm botched its legal work on a corporate stock transaction more than a decade ago; Simpson Thacher denies liability and argues that market forces, not its advice, caused the losses. What makes this notable is simply that it’s going to a jury at all. Malpractice claims against top-tier firms are almost always settled quietly or dismissed before trial, because both sides have strong incentives to avoid airing the details of a soured client relationship in open court. A verdict here could ripple outward—shaping how firms handle risk, how professional-liability insurers price transactional work, and how future clients frame malpractice claims against their own lawyers.

Simpson Thacher prepares for rare malpractice trial in Florida next week | Reuters

And finally, President Trump has removed the last sitting members of the U.S. Election Assistance Commission, the bipartisan federal agency that helps states administer elections. All three commissioners were pushed out at once—the two Democratic members fired by email, the Republican member asked by phone to resign—leaving the four-seat commission entirely empty. That vacancy is the whole point: with no commissioners, the EAC cannot take official action, and because replacements require Senate confirmation, the agency could be sidelined for months heading into the midterms. The EAC isn’t a powerhouse—it sets voluntary voting-system guidelines and distributes election funding—but it’s a piece of the federal election infrastructure, and emptying it entirely is unprecedented. Voter-advocacy groups and Democratic election officials called the move reckless, and it raises the same structural question running through this week’s news: how much a president may reshape or disable the machinery that oversees elections in the run-up to a vote.

Trump terminates Election Assistance Commission members | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: The Fourteenth Amendment Is Ratified

On July 9, 1868, South Carolina and Louisiana became the final two states needed to push the Fourteenth Amendment over the three-quarters threshold, and with their votes the amendment was ratified into the Constitution. It is, by almost any measure, the most consequential of the Reconstruction amendments and arguably the most important addition to the Constitution since the Bill of Rights.

The amendment was written to answer the central question left open by the Civil War and the abolition of slavery: what did freedom actually mean, and who was entitled to it? Its first section does an enormous amount of work in a single sentence. It establishes birthright citizenship—declaring that all persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to its jurisdiction, are citizens of both the nation and their state. It then forbids any state from abridging the privileges or immunities of citizens, from depriving any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law, and from denying any person the equal protection of the laws. Those three clauses—privileges or immunities, due process, and equal protection—became the constitutional text on which vast stretches of modern American law are built.

The historical purpose was direct. The framers of the amendment, led in the House by John Bingham, wanted to overrule Dred Scott, which had held that Black Americans could not be citizens, and to constitutionalize the civil rights protections Congress had already tried to enact by statute—putting them beyond the reach of any future hostile Congress or Southern legislature. They understood that emancipation without citizenship and equal protection would be a hollow victory, and they wrote a guarantee that applied against the states, not just the federal government.

The significance of July 9, 1868 is hard to overstate, because so much of what we argue about today runs directly through this text. The Equal Protection Clause is the basis of Brown v. Board of Education and school desegregation, of Loving v. Virginia striking down bans on interracial marriage, and of Obergefell recognizing marriage equality. The Due Process Clause became the vehicle for incorporating most of the Bill of Rights against the states, so that free speech, free exercise, and protections for the criminally accused bind state governments too. And the Citizenship Clause is the reason that birthright citizenship is a constitutional guarantee rather than a policy preference—as the Supreme Court reaffirmed just this past term. When you hear debates about who counts as a citizen, what process the government owes a person before it takes something from them, or whether a law treats people equally, you are hearing an argument about the amendment ratified on this date.

A federal judge in Florida has ordered the Department of Homeland Security to keep giving four Republican-led states—Florida, Iowa, Indiana, and Ohio—access to a federal database those states use to check whether registered voters are citizens. The order, from U.S. District Judge T. Kent Wetherell II in Pensacola, lets the states continue using the system while the underlying legal fight plays out.

The database is called SAVE—Systematic Alien Verification for Entitlements—a federal system historically used to verify immigration status for benefits. After a revamp last year, it became far more powerful for election purposes: users could search many records at once, and it exposed individuals’ Social Security numbers. Several Republican-led states began comparing their voter rolls against SAVE and canceling the registrations of people the database flagged as noncitizens. The problem is what happens when the database is wrong or out of date—people who are in fact citizens can get flagged and purged.

That risk is exactly why this ruling sits in tension with another one. Just weeks earlier, on June 22, a different federal judge in Washington, D.C., restricted broader use of the database, warning that relying on it could result in eligible voters being wrongly stripped from the rolls. So you now have two federal courts pointing in different directions—one worried about wrongful purges and limiting the database’s use, and one ordering DHS to keep the spigot open for these four states. When trial courts split like this, the disagreement typically has to be resolved higher up, and it means the rules can differ depending on which state and which courtroom you’re standing in.

The significance is that this is a live fight over the machinery of voter-roll maintenance heading into a midterm election year. There’s a genuine and legitimate interest in keeping noncitizens off the voter rolls—but there’s an equally real risk that a blunt, error-prone matching process disenfranchises actual citizens who then have to fight to get back on. This ruling tilts toward giving states the verification tool; the D.C. ruling tilts toward protecting against wrongful removals. Watch the appellate courts, because the boundary between list maintenance and unlawful voter purging is about to get drawn more sharply.

US judge orders four states be given access to citizenship data for voter checks | Reuters

In a closely related development, the Justice Department has sent letters to all fifty states warning that state and local election officials could face criminal prosecution if they allow noncitizens to remain on their voter rolls. The letters, from Harmeet Dhillon, who leads the Department’s Civil Rights Division, give officials just five days to respond with a plan to comply.

The federal government does have statutes on the books aimed at protecting the integrity of elections and barring noncitizens from voting, and the letters invoke several of them. But the ordinary way these laws work is that you prosecute a person who actually votes illegally, or who knowingly facilitates fraud. What’s unusual here is the target: the letters put state and local election administrators—the people who maintain the rolls—on notice that they personally could be charged. That reframes routine election administration as potential criminal exposure for the officials doing it.

Think about the position this puts an election official in. Maintaining accurate voter rolls is genuinely hard—people move, die, naturalize, and occasionally register in error—and every state already has processes for it. Now imagine being told by the U.S. Department of Justice that if the federal government later decides your rolls were inadequate, you could be a criminal defendant, and you have five days to send in a compliance plan. Even if few or no prosecutions ever materialize, the threat itself is designed to change behavior—to push officials toward more aggressive purging out of fear of personal liability. Critics call that coercion; the Department frames it as enforcement.

The significance is about federal pressure on the decentralized American election system. Elections in this country are run by states and localities, deliberately, so that no single national authority controls the vote. Democratic officials in states like Michigan pushed back hard, noting they’ve already taken extensive steps to ensure only eligible voters can vote. The letters, arriving alongside the SAVE database fight, are part of a coordinated push ahead of the midterms, and they raise a serious question about the line between legitimate federal enforcement of election laws and using the threat of prosecution to lean on the officials who administer them.

US Justice Department tells state officials they could be prosecuted over noncitizen voting | Reuters

And in a very different kind of case, a former Olympic canoe racer, David Hearn, pleaded not guilty in D.C. Superior Court to a felony charge of deliberately damaging the recently renovated Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. Hearn, who is 67 and competed in three Summer Olympics, entered his plea through an attorney at his first court appearance, and his lawyers have described the prosecution as an abuse of power built on what they call a “concocted narrative.”

The Reflecting Pool sits on the National Mall between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument and had just undergone a roughly $16 million renovation. Hearn has said he was stopped by National Guard troops and U.S. Park Police and detained for about five hours after pausing at the pool during a 64-mile bike ride in June. He was later indicted on a single felony count of property destruction. The top federal prosecutor for D.C., U.S. Attorney Jeanine Pirro, said six other people were arrested on misdemeanor charges connected to damage at the same site.

The legal question worth watching is the gap between the charge and the conduct. Property-destruction law generally requires proof that the defendant intentionally caused the damage, and a felony charge usually turns on the dollar value of that damage. Hearn’s defense is essentially that the government has manufactured intent and seriousness out of an innocent encounter—that a man pausing on a bike ride has been turned into a felony defendant. The judge apparently agreed there was little flight or danger risk: Hearn was released without court supervision pending an August 5 status hearing, which tells you something about how the court currently views the threat he poses.

The significance here is less about one damaged pool and more about the exercise of prosecutorial discretion. Deciding whom to charge, and whether to charge a felony versus a misdemeanor versus nothing at all, is one of the most powerful and least reviewable choices in the legal system. When critics call a prosecution politically motivated or an abuse of power, they’re pointing at that discretion. Whether this case is a legitimate property-crime prosecution (it isn’t) or an overreach (it is) is exactly what the coming proceedings will test—and it’s a useful reminder that the same charging power that holds genuine wrongdoers accountable can also be aimed in ways that raise real fairness concerns.

Former US Olympian pleads not guilty in Reflecting Pool vandalism case | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: Vermont Bans Slavery

On July 8, 1777, delegates meeting in Windsor adopted the Constitution of the Vermont Republic—and in doing so, Vermont became the first place in North America to write the prohibition of slavery into its founding law. At a moment when the newly declared United States tolerated and protected human bondage, a small, unrecognized republic on the frontier put a very different principle on paper.

The relevant language was striking for its era. The Vermont constitution declared that all people are born equally free and independent, and it provided that no adult could be held as a servant, slave, or apprentice against their will—specifically, no man over twenty-one and no woman over eighteen. It was not a complete abolition; the age limits meant the document did not immediately free everyone, and enforcement in practice was uneven and incomplete for years afterward. But as a matter of constitutional text, it was the first time on this continent that a government’s foundational law declared slavery inconsistent with the very idea of being born free.

The context matters. In 1777, Vermont was not yet a state—it wouldn’t join the Union until 1791—and it existed in a kind of legal limbo, claimed by both New York and New Hampshire and recognized by neither. That outsider status may have given its drafters room to be bolder than their contemporaries. While the framers of the national government were negotiating the compromises that would embed slavery in American law for another four generations—the three-fifths clause, the fugitive slave clause, the twenty-year protection of the slave trade—Vermont’s drafters wrote the opposite conviction into their first article.

The significance of July 8, 1777 is partly symbolic and partly practical. Symbolically, it established that abolition was not some later invention imposed on a reluctant founding generation, but a principle that existed at the founding itself, chosen by people who could see the contradiction between declaring all men free and holding some in bondage. Practically, Vermont’s provision became an early data point in the long argument that would run through the Northwest Ordinance, the gradual emancipation statutes of the northern states, the abolitionist movement, the Civil War, and finally the Thirteenth Amendment. It’s a reminder that constitutional law is not just handed down from the most powerful actors—that sometimes the boldest legal principles come from the margins, from a place that wasn’t even sure it counted as a state, writing down what it believed the law ought to be.

A former Milwaukee County judge, Hannah Dugan, has been sentenced in federal court after being convicted of obstructing an immigration arrest outside her courtroom—a case that became a flashpoint in the fight over the Trump administration’s use of courthouses to stage immigration enforcement. Dugan, who is 67 and was an elected circuit court judge, was found guilty of obstructing a federal proceeding, though a jury acquitted her of a lesser concealment charge.

Federal immigration agents came to Dugan’s courthouse to arrest Eduardo Flores-Ruiz, a Mexican man who was scheduled to appear before her on misdemeanor assault charges. Prosecutors said Dugan directed him out through a non-public “jury door” in an effort to help him avoid the agents waiting in the public hallway. It didn’t work—Flores-Ruiz walked through a public hallway with his attorney anyway, and agents arrested him outside after a brief foot chase. But the government charged Dugan criminally for what she did inside the courthouse, and a federal jury convicted her in December.

Think about the competing principles colliding here. On one side is the idea that no one, not even a judge, gets to physically obstruct federal law enforcement carrying out its duties. On the other is a real institutional worry that animated a lot of the coverage: if immigration agents stake out courthouses, people with pending cases—victims, witnesses, defendants—may stop showing up at all, which grinds the ordinary work of the state courts to a halt. Dugan’s defenders framed her actions as protecting the functioning of her courtroom; prosecutors framed them as obstruction of a federal operation. The jury sided with the government on the core charge.

At sentencing, the two sides were far apart. Federal prosecutors declined to recommend a specific term but argued the guidelines called for fifteen to twenty-one months in prison. Dugan’s lawyers disputed that calculation and asked U.S. District Judge Lynn Adelman for time served—no prison at all. The significance of the case goes well beyond one judge. It’s a marker of how aggressively the administration is willing to pursue anyone perceived to interfere with immigration enforcement, up to and including a sitting judge, and it sends a message to state and local officials everywhere about the personal legal risk of getting between federal agents and their targets.

Ex-Wisconsin judge to be sentenced for obstructing immigration arrest | Reuters

Bayer is moving to bring an end to the sprawling federal litigation over its Roundup weedkiller, following a significant win at the Supreme Court. Late last month, the Court ruled 7-2 in Bayer’s favor, and the company is now trying to convert that decision into the dismissal of the failure-to-warn claims that have driven nearly a decade of lawsuits.

Thousands of plaintiffs have sued Bayer alleging that Roundup, and specifically its active ingredient glyphosate, caused their non-Hodgkin lymphoma, and that the company violated state law by failing to warn them of that cancer risk. Bayer’s winning argument was about federal preemption—the principle that when federal and state law conflict, federal law wins. Bayer argued that because the Environmental Protection Agency has concluded glyphosate poses no cancer risk and requires no cancer warning on the label, plaintiffs can’t use state failure-to-warn law to demand a warning the federal regulator affirmatively says isn’t needed. The Supreme Court agreed, overturning a $1.25 million Missouri verdict in the process.

Consider why this is such a powerful tool for Bayer. A failure-to-warn claim says, in essence, “you should have told me this was dangerous.” But if the federal agency in charge has studied the product and decided no warning is warranted, then a state jury ordering the company to warn anyway would effectively be overriding the federal regulator. Preemption resolves that conflict in favor of the federal standard. The practical effect is that the single most common theory in the Roundup litigation—failure to warn—is now largely off the table in the cases this ruling reaches.

The significance is real but, importantly, not total. This should let Bayer dismiss current warning-based claims and block future ones, which is exactly why the company is now pressing courts to wind down the federal litigation, and it’s pairing that push with a proposed $7.25 billion class-action settlement to sweep in remaining Roundup users. But the decision doesn’t make every claim disappear. Plaintiffs may still pursue theories that don’t depend on a failure to warn—like defective design—and the settlement obligations remain. So this is a milestone in Bayer’s long campaign to contain its liability, not the final word. It’s also a notable example of how federal regulatory findings can become a shield against state tort law, a doctrine with implications well beyond weedkiller.

Bayer seeks end to federal Roundup litigation after Supreme Court win | Reuters

Federal judges are sounding skeptical of a California law that bans employers from forcing workers to attend so-called “captive audience” meetings—mandatory gatherings where a company shares its views on political or religious matters, most often its opposition to unionizing. The law has already been blocked by a district court, and the signs from the bench suggest that skepticism may carry through on appeal.

Here’s what a captive audience meeting is and why it’s contested. When a union organizing drive is underway, employers have long held mandatory meetings where attendance is required and workers listen to management make the case against unionizing. Unions call these coercive; employers call them protected speech. California’s SB 399 tried to ban compelling attendance at meetings covering “political matters,” a category defined broadly enough to include unionization. Judge Daniel Calabretta of the Eastern District of California blocked the law, and his reasoning is the crux of the whole fight.

He gave two independent grounds, and it’s worth separating them. The first is federal preemption—the same principle at work in the Bayer story. Calabretta found that the National Labor Relations Act, which governs labor relations nationwide, occupies this field and preempts California’s attempt to regulate it under the Machinists and Garmon preemption doctrines. The second ground is the First Amendment: he held that the law was a content-based restriction on employer speech, singling out “political” and “religious” topics, and that it couldn’t survive strict scrutiny—the most demanding test in constitutional law, which almost nothing passes. In his view, banning all speech on those topics in mandatory meetings swept far too broadly.

The significance here is that this is a collision between the labor movement’s priorities and employers’ free-speech claims, and right now the free-speech and preemption arguments are winning in court. A number of states have passed captive-audience bans, so how the Ninth Circuit ultimately rules—California and Attorney General Rob Bonta are expected to appeal—will shape whether this entire category of worker-protection law survives. It’s a reminder that even popular labor legislation has to run a gauntlet of federal preemption and the First Amendment, and that employer speech, including anti-union speech, gets substantial constitutional protection.

US judges leery of California ban on workplace captive-audience meetings | Reuters

This Day in Legal History: Sandra Day O’Connor Nominated to the Supreme Court

On July 7, 1981, President Ronald Reagan announced that he was nominating Sandra Day O’Connor to the Supreme Court of the United States. If confirmed, she would become the first woman ever to serve on the Court in its then-191-year history. The Senate confirmed her later that summer by a vote of 99 to 0, and she took her seat in September 1981.

O’Connor’s path to the Court was, in its own way, a commentary on the barriers women faced in the legal profession. She had graduated near the top of her class at Stanford Law School in 1952—ahead of, among others, William Rehnquist, who would one day be her Chief Justice—and yet law firms in California would not hire her as a lawyer. One offered her a job as a legal secretary. She built her career instead in public service and in Arizona politics, eventually rising to become the majority leader of the Arizona state senate, the first woman in the country to hold such a post, before moving to the bench as a state judge. When Reagan, who had promised during his campaign to appoint a woman to the Court, chose her, he was reaching past the federal appellate judiciary—which had almost no women on it—into state government.

On the Court, O’Connor became famous as a pragmatic, case-by-case decision-maker who resisted sweeping rules, and for roughly a quarter century she sat at the ideological center, casting decisive votes on abortion, affirmative action, campaign finance, religion, and the limits of federal power. Her approach frustrated those who wanted bright-line doctrines from either side, but it made her, for a generation, arguably the most powerful jurist in the country—the swing vote whose reasoning lower courts and litigants had to anticipate.

Her nomination matters in legal history not only because it broke a barrier that had stood since 1789, but because of what came after it. Once one woman had sat on the Court and served with distinction, the question was no longer whether a woman could do the job but why it had taken so long. O’Connor herself was characteristically understated about the symbolism, insisting that she wanted to be judged on the quality of her arguments rather than her place in history. But the two are not really separable. The fact that a brilliant lawyer could be turned away from every firm that interviewed her, and then go on to become the deciding vote on the highest court in the land, is a reminder of how much talent the profession wasted for how long—and of how quickly a barrier that seems permanent can fall once someone is finally allowed through it.

Meta has disclosed that four states are seeking as much as $1.4 trillion in penalties heading into an August trial over claims that the company deliberately designed Facebook and Instagram to addict young users. The figure—close to Meta’s entire market value of around $1.5 trillion—came out in a court filing in which Meta argued the number is wildly excessive and, in its words, “has no analog in the history of consumer protection enforcement.”

California, Colorado, Kentucky, and New Jersey are among the states suing Meta, alleging that the company engineered features to keep teenagers compulsively engaged—infinite scroll, autoplay, manipulative notifications—while publicly downplaying the harm to young users’ mental health. The case is set for trial in Oakland in August. The eye-popping penalty number comes from how state consumer-protection laws are structured: they typically set a fixed statutory fine per violation, and the states arrive at $1.4 trillion by multiplying that per-violation fine by an enormous number of alleged violations, one for roughly every affected young user, across years of conduct.

Think about how that math works and why it produces such a staggering figure. If a law says you owe, say, a few thousand dollars per violation, that sounds modest—until the “violations” are counted in the tens or hundreds of millions because each affected teenager, each exposure, is its own violation. Statutes written to punish a corner store for mislabeling a product start to generate astronomical numbers when applied to a platform that touches nearly every teenager in a state. That’s the tension at the heart of this filing: the states say they’re simply applying the law as written, and Meta says applying it that way produces a number no legislature could possibly have intended.

The significance here isn’t really the trillion-dollar headline, which almost no one expects to be the actual outcome. It’s what the fight over the number reveals. Penalty calculations like this are leverage—they shape settlement negotiations and signal how seriously a court might treat the underlying conduct. The case is one of the most important tests yet of whether decades-old consumer-protection statutes can be turned against the design choices of social media platforms, and whether “we built it to be addictive” can be treated as a deceptive or unfair business practice. However the penalty question resolves, the theory of liability is the thing to watch.

Meta says US states are seeking $1.4 trillion in penalties in August youth safety trial | Reuters

A coalition of twenty-two Democratic state attorneys general has come out against the Trump administration’s plan to impose tariffs of up to 12.5% on 59 countries and the European Union, tariffs the administration justifies as a response to trade in goods made with forced labor. The attorneys general, led by California’s Rob Bonta, call the levies unlawful and describe them as a pretext to resurrect tariff authority the Supreme Court has already rejected.

Tariffs are taxes on imports, and the Constitution gives the power to levy taxes primarily to Congress. Presidents can impose tariffs, but only when Congress has delegated them that authority through a specific statute, and each of those statutes comes with its own conditions and limits. Earlier tariffs from this administration were struck down when courts found the President had stretched his delegated power past what the law allowed. Now the administration is invoking forced-labor concerns as the legal basis for a new round. The Democratic attorneys general argue that this is the same overreach in a new costume—that dressing tariffs up as a human-rights measure doesn’t cure the underlying problem, which is that the President is claiming a taxing power Congress never handed him.

Consider the practical reach of what’s proposed. The attorneys general say these tariffs would hit roughly 99% of imports. A tariff, whatever its stated purpose, is ultimately paid by importers and passed along to consumers in higher prices. So the debate isn’t only an abstract argument about the separation of powers—it’s about who gets to decide to raise the cost of nearly everything Americans buy from abroad, and whether that decision belongs to one person in the executive branch or to Congress. The forced-labor rationale is genuinely important on its own terms; forced labor in global supply chains is a real and serious problem. But the attorneys general are making a structural point: even a good goal doesn’t authorize a power the law doesn’t grant.

The significance is that this is another front in an ongoing constitutional struggle over how far presidential trade power extends. The attorneys general are signaling they will litigate, and the courts have already shown, in striking down the earlier tariffs, that they are willing to police the boundary. Watch for whether this dispute follows the same path to the Supreme Court, because the answer will shape not just this set of tariffs but how much unilateral economic power any president can claim by pointing to a sufficiently sympathetic justification.

Democratic AGs oppose Trump plan to impose tariffs on forced labor concerns | Reuters

The U.S. Patent and Trademark Office has abandoned an unusual set of trademark applications it had filed to register the phrase “Board of Peace” on behalf of President Trump, walking away from the filings after sharp criticism from congressional Democrats and questions about whether the agency had any legal authority to file them in the first place. The government filed an express abandonment of the applications, ending what one member of Congress called an unlawful venture.

A trademark protects a brand—a word or logo used to identify the source of goods or services in commerce. Normally, a person or company files their own application, or has their lawyer file it for them. What happened here is that the Director of the Patent and Trademark Office, the head of the very agency that examines and grants trademarks, filed applications to register “Board of Peace” on the President’s behalf. And that raised an immediate legal problem: the Lanham Act, the federal trademark statute, generally forbids filing an application on behalf of another person unless you are that person’s attorney—and the Director specifically was not acting as Trump’s lawyer.

Think about why that rule exists and why the arrangement looked so troubling. The agency that decides who gets a trademark is supposed to be a neutral referee. When the head of that agency personally files an application for the President, the referee has stepped onto the field to play for one team. Even setting aside the specific statutory bar, it collapses the distinction between the government official who grants rights and the private party who receives them. Critics questioned not just the legality but the transparency of the whole exercise—who authorized it, on what authority, and why the trademark office was branding a presidential initiative at all.

The significance is less about the phrase “Board of Peace” and more about the guardrails around a powerful administrative agency. Trademark law has technical rules about who may file and on whose behalf, and those rules are part of what keeps the system credible. The abandonment—prompted by oversight from the House Judiciary Committee’s Democrats—shows those guardrails still functioning: an irregular filing was flagged, its legal basis questioned, and the agency backed down before a court had to intervene. It’s a small episode in the scheme of things, but a clean illustration of how ordinary statutory limits and legislative oversight can check an official who reaches beyond his role.

US trademark office abandons ‘Board of Peace’ branding rights applications | Reuters

In my column for Bloomberg Tax this week, I take on the administration’s threat to hit countries that have digital services taxes with 100% tariffs. My argument, in short, is that this is an ill-advised response—it isn’t really a defense of the U.S. tax system at all, but an attempt to use consumer-funded trade pain to shield big tech from foreign tax bills.

Let me set up the problem. A digital services tax, or DST, is a levy some foreign governments impose on the local digital revenue of companies like Alphabet, Meta, Apple, Amazon, or Netflix. These firms can earn enormous revenue from users in a country without ever having the kind of physical presence that the traditional international tax system was built to tax. Netflix can stream into a jurisdiction, pull revenue out of it, and never owe local tax. So foreign governments invented DSTs to capture some of that. The U.S. response, apparently, is to threaten tariffs on that country’s completely unrelated goods until the tax goes away. The logic is that if Google has to pay France a modest tax on its digital revenue, someone in Cleveland might have to pay more for their champagne.

I want to be fair to both sides here, because I actually think both have a point. DSTs genuinely deserve criticism—they’re blunt instruments that tax gross revenue rather than profit, which means they can overtax low-margin business, and they’re often designed with revenue thresholds conveniently set to catch every big U.S. tech firm while sparing domestic companies. So the U.S. complaint that these taxes are tailored to skim revenue from American firms is not baseless. But foreign governments also have a legitimate grievance: the old international tax rules really do struggle to tax digital businesses that earn a fortune from local users without setting foot in the country.

Here’s where I think the tariff response falls apart. A blanket 100% tariff doesn’t fix any of a DST’s design flaws. It doesn’t determine where digital value is actually created, it doesn’t allocate taxing rights, and it doesn’t even fall on the foreign government. Tariffs are paid by importers, and most of that cost gets passed along to consumers. With last year’s tariffs, as much as ninety percent of the economic burden landed on domestic firms and consumers. So think about how strange this is as tax policy: the companies facing the foreign tax are the largest and richest technology firms in the world, but the companies and consumers who’d actually feel the tariff are unrelated domestic players. No one is literally cutting Meta a reimbursement check, but the effect is the same—American consumers and importers become the leverage used to protect Silicon Valley from foreign tax exposure.

And the bilateral approach has a nasty structural problem. The administration seems emboldened by the Canada episode—Canada moved to collect its DST, the U.S. threatened trade consequences, and Canada backed down. The apparent lesson the administration drew is that a big enough threat can make any foreign tax disappear. But if the U.S. treats tariff threats as a standing veto over other countries’ tax policy, then every DST becomes a bilateral confrontation—France, Spain, Italy, the UK, one hostage negotiation after another—and it invites everyone else to adopt the same playbook the moment U.S. firms need something from them.

So what I argue for instead is a binding, multilateral framework, and I lay out three pieces it would need. First, countries with DSTs agree to repeal them once a replacement is in place—the goal is to swap the ad hoc levies for something coherent, not stack a new rule on top of them. Second, market jurisdictions get, and help design, a predictable formula for their share of taxing rights over digital multinationals—something administrable and tied to a defensible theory of where digital profits are earned. And third, the U.S. keeps its powder dry: retaliation stays in reserve for countries that refuse the framework or discriminate against U.S. firms, applied with due process and proportionality, not as a one-size-fits-all tariff bazooka every time a foreign tax annoys Silicon Valley. Until we build that kind of system, the DST fight is just going to keep coming back.

US Tariff Threat Is an Ill-Advised Digital Services Tax Reaction | Bloomberg Tax

This Day in Legal History: The Execution of Sir Thomas More

On July 6, 1535, Sir Thomas More was beheaded at Tower Hill in London, convicted of high treason against King Henry VIII. More had been one of the most powerful men in England—a lawyer, a scholar, a former Lord Chancellor, the King’s own friend—and he went to the scaffold because he would not say the words the King demanded.

The dispute was, at its heart, about supremacy. Henry VIII had broken with Rome and declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England, and Parliament had passed the Act of Supremacy and an Act of Succession requiring subjects to swear an oath acknowledging the King’s new status and the legitimacy of his marriage to Anne Boleyn. More refused to take the oath. Crucially, he did not denounce the King. He said nothing at all. He believed that by staying silent he stayed within the law—that under the old maxim, silence gives consent, and no court could convict a man for what he had not said.

The Crown answered that theory with new law. The Treason Act of 1534, which took effect in early 1535, made it treason to “maliciously” deprive the King or Queen of their “dignity, title, or name”—and the government argued that More’s conspicuous silence about the King’s supremacy was itself a denial of it. More was tried on July 1, 1535, before a panel that included Anne Boleyn’s father, brother, and uncle. The decisive testimony came from Richard Rich, the solicitor general, who claimed More had privately rejected the King’s title in conversation in the Tower. More insisted the testimony was perjured. The jury deliberated for about fifteen minutes and found him guilty. He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered; the King, in what passed for mercy, commuted the sentence to beheading.

More’s case endures in the legal imagination because it sits at the fault line between law as an instrument of power and law as a limit on power. More was a formidable lawyer who tried to use the law’s own rules—the presumption that silence is not a crime, the requirement of proof—to protect his conscience, and the state simply rewrote the rules and manufactured the proof. His famous last words, that he died “the King’s good servant, but God’s first,” draw the line between obedience to the state and obedience to something the state cannot command. Four centuries later, we still cite More when we argue about compelled speech, about the right to remain silent, about loyalty oaths, and about what a person owes a government that has turned the machinery of law against him. He is a patron saint of lawyers precisely because he lost—because his trial shows how thin the protection of law can be when those in power decide they would rather have a conviction than a fair one.

A federal appeals court has ruled that Immigration and Customs Enforcement cannot detain migrants for more than ninety days without giving them a chance to seek release at a bond hearing. In a 2-1 decision, the Fifth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals—one of the most conservative in the country—sided against the administration, a ruling that could affect thousands of people held in detention in states like Texas and Louisiana.

When the government seeks to deport someone, that process can take months or even years, and in the meantime the government often detains the person. The legal question is whether the government can simply hold someone indefinitely while the case grinds on, or whether at some point that person is entitled to a hearing where a neutral decision-maker asks whether they actually need to be locked up—whether they’re a flight risk or a danger, or whether they can safely be released on bond while they wait. The administration argued that certain migrants are subject to “mandatory detention” with no such hearing at all. The Fifth Circuit said that after ninety days, that position runs into constitutional trouble.

Imagine being held in a jail cell for months, not because a judge decided you were dangerous, but because a statute was read to mean nobody ever has to ask the question. The core idea the court is protecting is an old one: the government generally cannot deprive a person of physical liberty without some individualized process, some moment where a human being reviews your particular case. A bond hearing is that moment. It doesn’t guarantee release—it guarantees that someone with authority has to look at you and decide.

The Department of Homeland Security said it disagreed with the ruling and remained confident in its legal position on mandatory detention, which signals a likely appeal, possibly to the Supreme Court. But for now, the decision draws a line: prolonged civil detention without any bond hearing is constitutionally suspect, and the length of confinement matters. The ruling is significant not only for the thousands of detainees it directly affects, but because it comes from a court that rarely rules against this administration—a reminder that even sympathetic judges have limits when the question is indefinite detention without a hearing.

Appeals court bars mandatory detention for migrants past 90 days without bond hearing | Fox News

Court Blocks Immigration Detention Without Hearings

The Supreme Court has refused to hear Donald Trump’s appeal seeking to overturn the jury verdict finding him liable for abusing and defaming the writer E. Jean Carroll. With the Court declining to take the case, the 2023 verdict and the roughly five-million-dollar judgment against him stand.

In 2023, a civil jury found that Trump sexually abused Carroll in a New York department store in the mid-1990s and later defamed her by branding her account a lie. He was ordered to pay her about five million dollars. Trump appealed and lost in the lower courts, then asked the Supreme Court to step in. Last week the Court denied that request. When the Supreme Court denies review—what lawyers call denying “certiorari”—it isn’t endorsing the verdict or ruling on the merits. It’s simply declining to hear the case, which leaves the lower court’s decision in force. But the practical effect is the same as a loss: the judgment is final, and there are no more appeals to pursue.

It helps to separate two things people often blur together. This is a civil case, not a criminal one. Carroll didn’t send anyone to prison; she sued for money and for the harm to her reputation, and a jury of ordinary citizens weighed the evidence and believed her. The Supreme Court’s role at this stage isn’t to re-try the facts—juries find facts, and appellate courts generally don’t second-guess them. The question the Court was asked was narrower and more legal, and the Court decided it wasn’t worth their time to review.

The significance here is partly about accountability and partly about the ordinariness of the outcome. A private citizen brought a claim, a jury sided with her, the appellate courts affirmed, and the highest court in the country let that stand—the system working exactly as it’s supposed to, regardless of the defendant’s power. It’s also a marker of the limits of that power: the office does not come with a trapdoor out of a civil judgment. The verdict is now as final as verdicts get.

Supreme Court rejects Trump effort to overturn E. Jean Carroll sexual abuse and defamation verdict | NBC News

The Supreme Court’s next term, beginning in October, is already set to feature major cases involving gun rights, voting rules, LGBT rights, immigration detention, and corporate disputes. One of the highest-profile cases concerns whether states and local governments may ban assault-style rifles such as AR-15s, with challenges coming from Connecticut and Cook County, Illinois. Gun rights advocates argue that these weapons are commonly owned and protected by the Second Amendment, while government officials describe them as military-style firearms that pose serious public safety risks.

The Court will also hear a voting rights dispute over Arizona rules that would impose stricter proof-of-citizenship requirements for voter registration and allow removal of suspected noncitizens from voter rolls. A lower court blocked parts of that law after finding that they conflicted with federal voter registration protections. Another case involves whether certain immigrants with criminal convictions can be held for long periods during deportation proceedings without receiving bond hearings. The Trump administration is asking the Court to uphold that detention policy, while a lower court found that prolonged detention without a hearing can violate due process. The Court will also consider a religious rights case from Colorado involving Catholic groups that want an exemption from nondiscrimination rules tied to a state preschool funding program. That case adds to the Court’s ongoing disputes over how to balance religious liberty claims against LGBT anti-discrimination protections. The term will also include business-related cases involving ExxonMobil and Suncor, Apple and Epic Games, and PepsiCo.

US Supreme Court to hear gun, LGBT, voting rights cases in next term | Reuters