Prosecutorial Misconduct and the Breaking Point of Justice

We like to pretend the justice system is a sturdy structure—solid, impartial, guided by the best of our ideals. We tell ourselves this because the alternative is too unsettling. But every so often, a case comes along and rips the polite veneer off the machinery of prosecution, exposing something we all prefer not to see: power can be abused, rules can be bent, and justice can be manipulated in ways that should unsettle every one of us.

Right now, we don’t have to look far. The cases involving James Comey and Letitia James have become lightning rods not just because of the politics swirling around them, but because of the alleged prosecutorial misconduct woven through the process itself. The pattern is troubling. When you have claims that a grand jury was effectively coerced—or that an operative indictment wasn’t even presented to the full panel—you start to see cracks in the very foundation of how we’re supposed to administer justice.

In Comey’s case, the accusations go beyond simple paperwork errors. The defense has pointed to an indictment that was drafted twice, with one version presented to the grand jury and the other used to charge him. They argue the grand jury never actually voted on the final, operative indictment—something that should never happen in any case, let alone one involving a former FBI director. Add to this the unusual timing of the appointment of an interim U.S. attorney with virtually no prosecutorial background, and you begin to see how the machinery of prosecution can be leveraged under extreme pressure or political urgency.

Then take Letitia James. New York’s attorney general was indicted on bank-fraud-related charges that she insists were politically driven and the product of what her team calls “outrageous government conduct.” When a state’s top legal officer stands up and says the federal government is prosecuting her vindictively, that’s not something we can shrug off. That’s a flashing red sign that something is off-balance.

Now, for a moment, set aside the political noise. Set aside whether you like or dislike either individual. That’s not what this is about. What matters here is this:
If prosecutors can push the limits this aggressively in cases involving two of the most public, powerful legal figures in the country, what do you think is happening to the people who have no platform at all?

Because let’s be honest—prosecutorial misconduct is not new. Selective prosecution is not new. Overcharging is not new. Evidence mishandling is not new. Police planting evidence? Sadly, not new either. Those problems have always existed in the shadows. But the difference now is that the behavior is bold enough, brazen enough, public enough that it feels like a stress test of our collective resolve.

If prosecutors feel comfortable taking shortcuts on a case involving a former FBI director, imagine the shortcuts they feel comfortable taking when they know no one will ever find out.

This is the part that keeps me up at night:
There are thousands of people sitting in jail or prison right now who never had the resources for a competent defense. Thousands who were pushed into plea deals because they were terrified of the consequences of fighting back. Thousands who had public defenders drowning in caseloads and breakdowns in communication. Thousands who may have been overcharged as leverage, or faced with grand juries who were given partial truths, slanted evidence, or outright coercive presentations.

And if we are now seeing alleged misconduct in cases that should have been handled with the highest degree of scrutiny and professionalism… then what does that say about everything happening off-camera?

We can pretend this is politics. We can pretend this is a fringe issue. But at some point, we have to confront the uncomfortable truth:
If the government starts disregarding its own rules—especially in public cases—then we are stepping dangerously close to a kangaroo court system.

A system where the prosecutor decides guilt before the jury ever sees the case.
A system where the grand jury becomes a rubber stamp.
A system where the accused are props, not participants.
A system where winning replaces justice.

And that is not a system that any of us—left, right, or center—should accept.

The law is supposed to restrain the government, not give it unchecked power. These rules exist not because prosecutors are evil or because defendants are saints. They exist because justice must be fair, and fairness only exists with guardrails. You cannot maintain a fair society while allowing the people with the most power to operate without consequence or oversight.

Let’s be clear: people commit crimes. People make mistakes. People must be held accountable. But the government must be held accountable too. And when the government’s conduct becomes the story—not the alleged crime—then the justice system itself is on trial.

If prosecutors can overreach in the daylight with two national figures, imagine the cases buried in dusty file boxes, never appealed, never reviewed, never questioned. Imagine the young man who never had a lawyer who could push back. Imagine the mother who took a plea because fighting meant losing her kids. Imagine the countless individuals who never received the fair shake we pride ourselves on offering.

So let it be known, loudly and clearly: this is not okay.
Not when it happens to public figures.
Not when it happens to the everyday person.
Not ever.

The justice system only works when we insist that it works fairly. And when we see misconduct—real or alleged, political or not—we have a responsibility to speak up. Because if we don’t, the breaking point of justice becomes more than a metaphor. It becomes our future.