Here’s something that deserves far more attention than it has received.

The cybersecurity attacks against the federal judiciary’s electronic case-management infrastructure are not merely an IT story.

They are a trust story.

And more than a year after the judiciary publicly acknowledged sophisticated and persistent attacks against its case-management system, we now have an extraordinary admission from the judiciary itself.

On September 17, 2026, the Administrative Office of the U.S. Courts announced that it is fast-tracking what it calls a “fundamental redesign” of the Case Management/Electronic Case Files system — CM/ECF.

Why?

Because, in the judiciary’s own words, the existing system has become “outdated and vulnerable to security breaches.” (United States Courts)

Read that sentence again.

This isn’t some critic of the federal courts saying it.

The federal judiciary is saying it.

PACER Is the Window. CM/ECF Is the Machinery Behind It.

There has been understandable shorthand describing this as the “PACER breach,” but the distinction matters.

PACER — Public Access to Court Electronic Records — is the system through which the public accesses federal court records. The judiciary says PACER provides access to more than one billion documents filed in federal courts. CM/ECF is the case-management and electronic-filing system courts use to maintain electronic case files. (PACER)

And the security problem involves the judiciary’s case-management infrastructure.

In August 2025, the Administrative Office publicly acknowledged “escalated cyberattacks of a sophisticated and persistent nature” against the judiciary’s case-management system and announced additional measures to protect sensitive documents. (United States Courts)

The response went beyond changing a few passwords.

Courts implemented new protections for sealed documents. In at least some courts, sealed and restricted documents were removed from electronic accessibility through CM/ECF and PACER under a Sealed Document Security program. (U.S. Court of Appeals for the DC Circuit)

Multifactor authentication was also rolled out for CM/ECF users — the same kind of additional credential security that ordinary Americans have been told for years is essential to protecting sensitive accounts. (PACER)

Now, in September 2026, the judiciary says the underlying system needs a fundamental redesign.

That progression should concern everyone.

Because federal court records aren’t abstractions.

They involve criminal defendants, civil litigants, victims, businesses, proprietary information, personal information and documents capable of profoundly affecting people’s lives.

Most court documents are intentionally public. Sealed documents are not publicly available through PACER. But the judiciary’s own security response demonstrates that protecting restricted and sensitive material inside the larger case-management environment has become a serious concern. (PACER)

And for me, none of this is theoretical.

I Have Seen the Power of This System Up Close

My daughter, Jennifer Kowalski, navigated the federal courts as a pro se litigant in Prudential Insurance Company of America v. Kowalski in the District of Connecticut.

I watched that case unfold not as a lawyer looking at a docket from a comfortable distance, but as a father.

And what I witnessed permanently changed the way I view judicial power.

In 2024, U.S. District Judge Victor Bolden ordered that Jennifer provide account credentials and cooperate with multifactor authentication so that the discovery vendor Epiq could search three cloud-storage accounts. When she did not comply, the court ordered that she could be remanded to the custody of the U.S. Marshals and civilly confined until she complied. (Justia Law)

On September 3, 2024, that is what happened.

The court’s later ruling confirms that after Jennifer declined to provide the requested login and multifactor-authentication credentials at a compliance hearing, she was placed in civil confinement. The court released her the following day after determining confinement had not produced compliance. (Justia Law)

She wasn’t serving a criminal sentence.

This arose from a civil discovery dispute.

You can agree with the court’s legal reasoning or disagree with it.

But you cannot seriously look at that episode and claim that the power of the federal judiciary is some academic question.

When a federal judge can order a citizen taken into custody over compliance with a discovery order involving passwords and cloud accounts, judicial power becomes very real, very quickly.

And enormous power requires enormous accountability.

Then I Began Questioning the Record Itself

As I examined the proceedings surrounding my daughter’s case, I developed concerns about discrepancies involving transcripts and the accuracy of portions of the official record.

I considered those concerns serious enough to pursue through the judicial misconduct process.

I want to be precise here: those concerns are my allegations and my interpretation of what I found. They should not be presented as an independently established finding that court transcripts were improperly altered.

But that distinction doesn’t diminish the larger issue.

It reinforces it.

Citizens must have a meaningful mechanism for raising questions about the integrity of judicial records and receiving answers worthy of the institution involved.

Because the record is everything.

Orders.

Filings.

Transcripts.

Evidence.

Docket entries.

The entire appellate process ultimately depends upon confidence that what appears in the official record accurately reflects what occurred.

Without that confidence, trust collapses.

The Courts Demand Precision From Us

Here’s where the hypocrisy question becomes unavoidable.

Federal courts demand extraordinary precision from everyone appearing before them.

Miss a deadline and there can be consequences.

Ignore an order and there can be consequences.

Fail to comply with discovery and, as my family learned firsthand, the consequences can become severe.

Federal litigants are expected to understand complicated procedural requirements, meet deadlines and comply with court orders.

Fine.

That’s how a serious judicial system operates.

But seriousness cannot travel in only one direction.

There cannot be one standard of accountability for the citizen standing before the bench and another for the institution sitting behind it.

If the federal judiciary expects meticulous compliance from everyone else, Americans are entitled to expect meticulous stewardship of the systems containing the records upon which justice depends.

And the judiciary has now acknowledged that its existing case-management system became outdated and vulnerable enough that a fundamental redesign is necessary. (United States Courts)

That deserves considerably more public discussion than it has received.

Judicial Independence Is Not Judicial Immunity From Scrutiny

Federal judges enjoy extraordinary independence for an important reason.

Justice should not change according to election cycles, political pressure or whoever happens to be shouting loudest outside the courthouse.

That independence is one of the foundations of our constitutional system.

But somewhere along the way, we have become reluctant to make an equally important distinction:

Judicial independence and judicial accountability are not opposites.

We need both.

Courts scrutinize executive agencies.

Courts scrutinize corporations.

Courts scrutinize police departments.

Courts scrutinize attorneys.

Courts scrutinize ordinary citizens.

Then citizens have every right to scrutinize the courts.

That isn’t an attack on the judiciary.

That’s accountability.

Don’t Tell Americans to “Trust the System”

My family’s experience has made me deeply skeptical whenever someone responds to legitimate institutional questions with four words:

Trust the system.

No.

Trust isn’t something government gets to demand.

Trust is earned.

It is earned through transparency.

It is earned through accurate records.

It is earned through meaningful oversight.

It is earned by acknowledging failures instead of minimizing them.

And it is earned by demonstrating that the rules apply just as seriously to the institution exercising power as they do to the citizen subjected to it.

The federal judiciary deserves credit for acknowledging the cybersecurity problem and moving toward a redesigned case-management system.

But modernization cannot simply mean better software.

It should also mean better accountability.

Congress and the judiciary should continue asking difficult questions about how sensitive judicial information is protected, who bears responsibility when safeguards fail, how restricted information is segregated, how breaches are investigated and disclosed, and whether existing oversight mechanisms remain adequate for a federal judiciary increasingly dependent upon digital infrastructure.

Because the real question isn’t whether someone can build a more secure version of CM/ECF.

Of course we can.

The real question is whether we are willing to apply the same principle to the institution itself.

The Comfortable Should Be Uncomfortable

The judiciary’s September announcement gives us an opportunity.

Build the new system.

Use modern cybersecurity.

Protect sensitive records.

Modernize the technology.

But don’t stop there.

Modernize the thinking about accountability as well.

Because a justice system ultimately runs on something no server can manufacture and no software update can install:

Public trust.

Once citizens begin questioning the integrity of the record, the security of the system or whether meaningful mechanisms exist to challenge the institution itself, replacing outdated technology solves only part of the problem.

The cyberattacks exposed weaknesses in the federal judiciary’s technological infrastructure.

The judiciary has now acknowledged that much.

What happens next will tell us something considerably more important:

Whether the institution is as willing to examine itself as it is to examine everyone who stands before it.

Judicial independence is essential.

So is judicial accountability.

Americans should never be asked to choose between the two.

To comfort the afflicted … and afflict the comfortable.

A Valley Viewpoint Narrative

There is a principle in our criminal justice system that should not be controversial:

If the government accuses you of a crime, you have a right to know the evidence against you.

Period.

Prosecutors should disclose evidence. Defendants should have meaningful access to information necessary to prepare a defense. Exculpatory evidence should never be hidden. Due process isn’t some technical inconvenience standing in the way of a conviction. It is one of the foundations of the American justice system.

But there is another principle that ought to be equally obvious:

A criminal case should ultimately rise or fall on the facts—not on whether somebody failed to upload the right document into the right computer system before the clock ran out.

And therein lies the story of New York’s discovery reforms.

In 2019, Albany replaced the state’s old discovery rules with Criminal Procedure Law Article 245, dramatically expanding the material prosecutors were required to collect and automatically provide to defendants. The new system took effect in January 2020 and tied discovery compliance closely to New York’s speedy-trial requirements. (NYSenate.gov)

The goal was understandable: end what critics called “trial by ambush” and give defendants earlier and broader access to the evidence against them.

The question is what happened when a legitimate reform collided with the reality of running a criminal justice system.

A 2023 Manhattan Institute report by Hannah Meyers painted a troubling picture. It argued that Article 245 had created enormous administrative burdens for prosecutors and police departments and contributed to cases being dismissed for procedural reasons rather than being resolved on their merits. The report cited data showing that, in the early years following implementation, discovery deadlines were being met in only a fraction of cases and that dismissal rates had increased substantially. (Manhattan Institute)

The report also described something anyone who has worked inside a bureaucracy should recognize immediately.

Paperwork produces more paperwork.

Body-camera footage. Police reports. Laboratory records. Witness information. Electronic communications. Personnel records. Photographs. Video. Documents sitting with another agency that the prosecutor may not even control.

One arrest can generate an extraordinary digital trail.

And under Article 245, prosecutors weren’t simply trying cases anymore. They were also responsible for locating, collecting, reviewing, redacting, tracking and transmitting enormous amounts of information—sometimes information of marginal importance to the actual question before the court. (Manhattan Institute)

This wasn’t merely a New York City issue.

Smaller counties can face a different version of the same problem. They may have multiple town and village police departments, sheriff’s offices, State Police, laboratories and other agencies feeding information into cases—without Manhattan-sized staffs or technology budgets.

That matters here in the Hudson Valley.

And by 2025, something significant happened.

Albany effectively acknowledged that the discovery system needed adjustment.

Governor Kathy Hochul, who described the original reforms as having made important improvements in fairness, proposed changes because of what her administration characterized as unintended consequences. Her administration argued that relatively minor discovery errors could interact with the speedy-trial clock and result in cases being dismissed without consideration of the underlying merits. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

This wasn’t simply rhetoric from critics of the 2019 law.

The Legislature changed it.

As part of the FY 2026 state budget, New York amended Article 245. Those changes took effect August 7, 2025. Among other things, the revised law narrowed some disclosure obligations, gave courts greater ability to consider prosecutors’ overall compliance efforts and whether missing material actually prejudiced the defense, and changed procedures surrounding challenges to discovery compliance. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

The state also committed $135 million for prosecutors and defense attorneys to help meet discovery obligations. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

Think about what that tells us.

A reform enacted to fix the criminal justice system subsequently required another reform—and another substantial infusion of taxpayer money—to address problems created by the first one.

Here in the Hudson Valley, the debate wasn’t theoretical.

When Hochul came to the region in April 2025 to argue for changes, her administration reported that Ulster County’s felony dismissal rate had risen from 3.6 percent in 2019 to 8.2 percent in 2023, while misdemeanor dismissals increased from 5.1 percent to 10.7 percent. Statewide, the administration said speedy-trial dismissals increased from 10,562 in 2019 to 49,974 in 2024. Those figures were presented by the governor’s office as evidence supporting amendments to the law. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

Those numbers deserve scrutiny, including the obvious caution that an increase following a law does not, by itself, prove that every additional dismissal was caused solely by that law.

That’s important.

Criminal justice policy is too serious for convenient statistics from either side.

Defense advocates had legitimate reasons for demanding discovery reform in the first place. A defendant cannot intelligently decide whether to plead guilty, challenge evidence or proceed to trial while being kept in the dark about the prosecution’s case.

That isn’t being “soft on crime.”

That’s the Constitution doing its job.

But protecting defendants and maintaining a functioning criminal justice system aren’t mutually exclusive goals.

Justice isn’t supposed to be a choice between protecting the accused and protecting the public.

It has to do both.

The Manhattan Institute’s 2023 report should therefore be read today not simply as an indictment of Article 245, but as an early warning about something Albany eventually decided required legislative attention.

And this is where the story becomes bigger than discovery.

Albany has a habit of passing sweeping reforms and announcing the intention as though the intention itself were the accomplishment.

It isn’t.

Government has an obligation to ask what happens next.

Can the district attorney actually comply?

Can the small-town police department provide everything required on time?

Can public defenders realistically review the mountain of material they’re receiving?

Are victims being heard?

Are defendants getting genuinely useful information—or merely gigabytes of it?

Are judges resolving cases according to their merits?

And when the law doesn’t work as intended, is Albany willing to admit it and fix it?

In this instance, New York eventually did change course. The 2025 amendments are now part of the experiment, and they deserve to be judged by evidence rather than political talking points. The relevant questions are measurable: Are fewer cases being dismissed solely because of nonprejudicial discovery errors? Are defendants still receiving evidence early enough to mount an effective defense? Are prosecutors and public defenders spending less time fighting over compliance and more time litigating the actual case?

That’s accountability.

Not whether the legislation had a noble title.

Not whether one political party gets credit.

Not whether prosecutors, defense attorneys or advocates win the day’s press conference.

Does the system produce justice?

Because somewhere behind every criminal case there may be a victim waiting for an answer.

There may also be a defendant whose liberty is at stake and who deserves every protection the Constitution provides.

Those aren’t competing inconveniences.

They’re the reason the justice system exists.

Albany’s challenge is building a system capable of protecting both.

And perhaps the biggest lesson from New York’s discovery experiment is remarkably simple:

Good intentions can write a law. Only results can tell us whether it works.

To comfort the afflicted…and afflict the comfortable.

There is a principle in our criminal justice system that should not be controversial:

If the government accuses you of a crime, you have a right to know the evidence against you.

Period.

Prosecutors should disclose evidence. Defendants should have meaningful access to information necessary to prepare a defense. Exculpatory evidence should never be hidden. Due process isn’t some technical inconvenience standing in the way of a conviction. It is one of the foundations of the American justice system.

But there is another principle that ought to be equally obvious:

A criminal case should ultimately rise or fall on the facts—not on whether somebody failed to upload the right document into the right computer system before the clock ran out.

And therein lies the story of New York’s discovery reforms.

In 2019, Albany replaced the state’s old discovery rules with Criminal Procedure Law Article 245, dramatically expanding the material prosecutors were required to collect and automatically provide to defendants. The new system took effect in January 2020 and tied discovery compliance closely to New York’s speedy-trial requirements. (NYSenate.gov)

The goal was understandable: end what critics called “trial by ambush” and give defendants earlier and broader access to the evidence against them.

The question is what happened when a legitimate reform collided with the reality of running a criminal justice system.

A 2023 Manhattan Institute report by Hannah Meyers painted a troubling picture. It argued that Article 245 had created enormous administrative burdens for prosecutors and police departments and contributed to cases being dismissed for procedural reasons rather than being resolved on their merits. The report cited data showing that, in the early years following implementation, discovery deadlines were being met in only a fraction of cases and that dismissal rates had increased substantially. (Manhattan Institute)

The report also described something anyone who has worked inside a bureaucracy should recognize immediately.

Paperwork produces more paperwork.

Body-camera footage. Police reports. Laboratory records. Witness information. Electronic communications. Personnel records. Photographs. Video. Documents sitting with another agency that the prosecutor may not even control.

One arrest can generate an extraordinary digital trail.

And under Article 245, prosecutors weren’t simply trying cases anymore. They were also responsible for locating, collecting, reviewing, redacting, tracking and transmitting enormous amounts of information—sometimes information of marginal importance to the actual question before the court. (Manhattan Institute)

This wasn’t merely a New York City issue.

Smaller counties can face a different version of the same problem. They may have multiple town and village police departments, sheriff’s offices, State Police, laboratories and other agencies feeding information into cases—without Manhattan-sized staffs or technology budgets.

That matters here in the Hudson Valley.

And by 2025, something significant happened.

Albany effectively acknowledged that the discovery system needed adjustment.

Governor Kathy Hochul, who described the original reforms as having made important improvements in fairness, proposed changes because of what her administration characterized as unintended consequences. Her administration argued that relatively minor discovery errors could interact with the speedy-trial clock and result in cases being dismissed without consideration of the underlying merits. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

This wasn’t simply rhetoric from critics of the 2019 law.

The Legislature changed it.

As part of the FY 2026 state budget, New York amended Article 245. Those changes took effect August 7, 2025. Among other things, the revised law narrowed some disclosure obligations, gave courts greater ability to consider prosecutors’ overall compliance efforts and whether missing material actually prejudiced the defense, and changed procedures surrounding challenges to discovery compliance. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

The state also committed $135 million for prosecutors and defense attorneys to help meet discovery obligations. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

Think about what that tells us.

A reform enacted to fix the criminal justice system subsequently required another reform—and another substantial infusion of taxpayer money—to address problems created by the first one.

Here in the Hudson Valley, the debate wasn’t theoretical.

When Hochul came to the region in April 2025 to argue for changes, her administration reported that Ulster County’s felony dismissal rate had risen from 3.6 percent in 2019 to 8.2 percent in 2023, while misdemeanor dismissals increased from 5.1 percent to 10.7 percent. Statewide, the administration said speedy-trial dismissals increased from 10,562 in 2019 to 49,974 in 2024. Those figures were presented by the governor’s office as evidence supporting amendments to the law. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

Those numbers deserve scrutiny, including the obvious caution that an increase following a law does not, by itself, prove that every additional dismissal was caused solely by that law.

That’s important.

Criminal justice policy is too serious for convenient statistics from either side.

Defense advocates had legitimate reasons for demanding discovery reform in the first place. A defendant cannot intelligently decide whether to plead guilty, challenge evidence or proceed to trial while being kept in the dark about the prosecution’s case.

That isn’t being “soft on crime.”

That’s the Constitution doing its job.

But protecting defendants and maintaining a functioning criminal justice system aren’t mutually exclusive goals.

Justice isn’t supposed to be a choice between protecting the accused and protecting the public.

It has to do both.

The Manhattan Institute’s 2023 report should therefore be read today not simply as an indictment of Article 245, but as an early warning about something Albany eventually decided required legislative attention.

And this is where the story becomes bigger than discovery.

Albany has a habit of passing sweeping reforms and announcing the intention as though the intention itself were the accomplishment.

It isn’t.

Government has an obligation to ask what happens next.

Can the district attorney actually comply?

Can the small-town police department provide everything required on time?

Can public defenders realistically review the mountain of material they’re receiving?

Are victims being heard?

Are defendants getting genuinely useful information—or merely gigabytes of it?

Are judges resolving cases according to their merits?

And when the law doesn’t work as intended, is Albany willing to admit it and fix it?

In this instance, New York eventually did change course. The 2025 amendments are now part of the experiment, and they deserve to be judged by evidence rather than political talking points. The relevant questions are measurable: Are fewer cases being dismissed solely because of nonprejudicial discovery errors? Are defendants still receiving evidence early enough to mount an effective defense? Are prosecutors and public defenders spending less time fighting over compliance and more time litigating the actual case?

That’s accountability.

Not whether the legislation had a noble title.

Not whether one political party gets credit.

Not whether prosecutors, defense attorneys or advocates win the day’s press conference.

Does the system produce justice?

Because somewhere behind every criminal case there may be a victim waiting for an answer.

There may also be a defendant whose liberty is at stake and who deserves every protection the Constitution provides.

Those aren’t competing inconveniences.

They’re the reason the justice system exists.

Albany’s challenge is building a system capable of protecting both.

And perhaps the biggest lesson from New York’s discovery experiment is remarkably simple:

Good intentions can write a law. Only results can tell us whether it works.

The Flock camera controversy isn’t over just because the cameras are coming down. Now we’re seeing politicians take a self-congratulatory victory lap, presenting the decision as proof that “leaders listened.”

Pleasant Valley residents did the hard part. They showed up, packed the public forum, raised serious questions, and made clear that surveillance technology deserves more than a quiet rollout and a promise that everything will be fine. Their concerns were about privacy, accountability, and who gets access to the information these cameras collect.

Two days after that forum, Dutchess County District Attorney Anthony Parisi and Sheriff Kirk Imperati announced that the cameras would be turned off and removed within 30 days. That is the news. It followed a public backlash and the withdrawal of support from the county’s top law enforcement officials.

So when a politician says, “People spoke. Leaders listened. And we saw action,” the obvious question is: why did residents have to push so hard to be heard in the first place?

Meghan Borland says she was “proud to help bring that conversation to Pleasant Valley.” If she helped create space for residents to speak, that deserves acknowledgment. But organizing a conversation is not the same as owning the outcome. The people who filled the room and challenged the cameras should not disappear from the story while elected officials step forward to claim the credit.

The lesson here is not that one politician delivered a victory. It is that residents can influence local decisions when they stay engaged, ask questions, and insist on answers. That is democracy at work—and it belongs to the people who made their voices heard.

Sometimes government listens.

Sometimes citizens show up, ask difficult questions, refuse to accept rehearsed assurances—and the people entrusted with public power reconsider their position.

That is what happened this week in Pleasant Valley.

On Wednesday, residents packed Pleasant Valley Town Hall for a public forum on Flock cameras and automated license-plate readers. Two days later, Dutchess County Sheriff Kirk Imperati and District Attorney Anthony Parisi announced that they were jointly withdrawing their support for the county’s continued use of Flock Safety technology. (midhudsonnews.com)

That is a significant reversal.

Approximately 64 Flock or similar license-plate-reading cameras are currently deployed throughout Dutchess County as part of the county’s Analysis and Real-Time Crime Intelligence Center. The Democratic majority in the County Legislature now says it will introduce an October resolution seeking to suspend data collection, cover the cameras, and move toward their removal. (midhudsonnews.com)

There will undoubtedly be politicians eager to claim victory. There always are.

But this should not become another partisan trophy to be waved around during an election year. It should be recognized for what it is: an example of citizens exercising their right to question government and public officials demonstrating the willingness to listen.

Let me be clear: I support law enforcement.

Our police officers deserve the technology, staffing, training, and community cooperation necessary to catch criminals and protect innocent people. Flock cameras have legitimate investigative uses. They can help recover stolen vehicles, locate missing people, identify dangerous suspects, and establish timelines in serious criminal cases.

Sheriff Imperati still believes properly regulated license-plate-reader technology can provide legitimate value to law enforcement. His decision was not an admission that the cameras had never worked or that local officers had abused them. In fact, no evidence of misuse within Dutchess County has been publicly identified. (midhudsonnews.com)

That distinction matters.

This was not a case of the sheriff and district attorney being caught doing something improper. It was a case of residents raising legitimate concerns about the extraordinary power of the technology itself.

Flock cameras do not record only suspected criminals. They capture information about every passing vehicle: its license plate, location, time, direction of travel, and identifying characteristics.

Your car. My car. The schoolteacher driving home. The parishioner going to Mass. The nurse reporting for work. The political activist attending a meeting. The woman entering a medical facility. The journalist meeting a confidential source.

Everyone is recorded—not because they are suspected of doing something wrong, but because they happened to drive down a public road.

That should concern conservatives every bit as much as liberals.

Supporters argue that license plates are visible in public. That is true, but it misses the larger point.

A police officer noticing your car at an intersection is not the same as a connected network creating a searchable digital history of your movements. Human observation is limited and temporary. A network of automated cameras can allow someone sitting behind a computer to trace a vehicle across multiple locations and communities.

That is no longer simple observation. It is surveillance.

The central issue was never whether Sheriff Imperati or District Attorney Parisi could be trusted. Both men have devoted decades to law enforcement and public safety. The issue was whether any government should possess this much information about innocent citizens without stronger laws, independent oversight, and clearly enforceable restrictions.

Policies change. Administrations change. Technology expands. Databases are shared. Systems built for violent crimes eventually attract less serious uses.

That is how mission creep works.

A tool introduced to locate dangerous offenders becomes a convenient way to investigate minor offenses. A database created to recover stolen vehicles can potentially reveal who attended a protest, visited a particular home, crossed state lines, sought medical care, or associated with someone the government considers suspicious.

The proper question was never whether the cameras could help solve crimes. They could.

The question was whether those benefits justified recording the movements of thousands of innocent people—and whether county government could guarantee that the information would never be misused, improperly shared, hacked, or repurposed.

No government can honestly make that guarantee.

At Wednesday’s forum, residents raised those concerns directly. They did what citizens are supposed to do: they showed up, spoke clearly, challenged authority, and demanded answers.

Then something refreshingly unusual happened.

The people in authority listened.

District Attorney Parisi acknowledged that public participation becomes meaningless if officials refuse to change course after hearing from the community. Sheriff Imperati made the equally important point that public safety depends upon public trust. (midhudsonnews.com)

They are right.

Leadership is not stubbornness. It is not digging in simply because reversing a decision may allow political opponents to celebrate. Real leadership means weighing new information, hearing the public, and changing direction when continued support for a policy would damage the trust necessary to govern effectively.

Sheriff Imperati and District Attorney Parisi deserve credit for making that choice.

Their decision does not make them anti-police. It does not mean Dutchess County is abandoning technology or surrendering to criminals. It means they recognized that even a useful law-enforcement tool can carry a price the community is unwilling to pay.

Those celebrating the decision should also resist the temptation to turn it into political theater.

Calling for responsible limits on surveillance is not the same as “defunding the police.” Supporting law enforcement does not require giving government unlimited access to information about innocent citizens. Those are false choices promoted by people more interested in winning arguments than solving problems.

We can support our police officers while insisting upon constitutional boundaries.

We can value public safety while protecting personal privacy.

We can respect law enforcement officials while questioning the tools placed in their hands.

That is not hostility toward government. It is self-government.

The next step must be clear and orderly. Data collection should be suspended promptly. The cameras should be disabled and removed. Existing information should be handled under a transparent deletion policy, and the public should receive a full accounting of what information was collected, how it was searched, which outside agencies had access, and what continuing contractual obligations remain.

The County Legislature must now ensure that the announced reversal becomes an enforceable public policy—not merely a press release.

Pleasant Valley residents helped bring this debate into the light. Dutchess County residents spoke. Sheriff Imperati and District Attorney Parisi listened.

In an age when politicians so often pretend to seek public input after decisions have already been made, that is worth acknowledging.

Public safety matters.

So does the presumption of innocence.

And free citizens should be able to drive to work, worship, visit friends, attend meetings, seek medical care, and live their lives without government quietly assembling a searchable history of where they have been.

This week, the machinery of government did something it does not do often enough.

It stopped. It listened. And it changed course.

That is not weakness.

That is what accountability looks like.

To comfort the afflicted…and afflict the comfortable.

By Ed Kowalski

New York collected $1.3 billion in tax revenue from online sports betting this year.

That is not pocket change. It is enough money to make even the most seasoned Albany politician briefly pause—before figuring out how to spend every last dime of it.

Since online sports betting was legalized in 2022, the industry has generated approximately $8.3 billion in gross revenue. New York imposed one of the most aggressive tax structures in the nation and watched the money pour into state coffers.

So, here is the question every New York taxpayer should be asking:

If Albany keeps finding new sources of revenue, why does living in New York never become more affordable?

The answer is painfully simple: Albany does not view additional revenue as an opportunity to reduce the burden on taxpayers. It views additional revenue as permission to spend more.

This year’s enacted state budget is estimated at an astonishing $277 billion—a 7% increase over the previous year. The state comptroller has warned that spending is projected to exceed revenue throughout the financial plan, raising serious questions about New York’s long-term fiscal sustainability. (osc.ny.gov)

Only in Albany can the state collect billions more, spend billions more and then congratulate itself for fighting “affordability.”

Apparently, the government’s definition of affordability is taking more of your money, running it through an enormous state bureaucracy and eventually returning a portion of it through a carefully branded program bearing a politician’s name.

That is not tax relief.

That is a political rebate program.

New York collected $127.5 billion in state taxes during the last fiscal year—nearly $10 billion more than the year before and $2.3 billion above projections. Yet total state spending still climbed to almost $259 billion, an increase of $17.5 billion in just one year. (osc.ny.gov)

Read those numbers again.

Tax collections rose by nearly $10 billion, but spending increased by $17.5 billion.

That is not a revenue problem. It is a spending problem.

If a family in Pleasant Valley handled its household finances that way, the credit cards would eventually be declined. If a small business in Dutchess County consistently allowed expenses to grow faster than income, it would close its doors.

Albany, however, never has to confront those consequences immediately. It can raise taxes, increase fees, borrow money and pass the bill to people who have no choice but to pay it.

Even the state comptroller warned earlier this year that projected spending was growing faster than anticipated revenue. At that point, cumulative budget gaps were expected to reach $27.5 billion through the 2030 fiscal year. The enacted budget only increased the concern. (osc.ny.gov)

Meanwhile, state agency overtime reached $1.6 billion in 2025—an increase of nearly 23% in a single year. The state workforce also grew for the third consecutive year. (osc.ny.gov)

There are legitimate reasons for government spending. We need functioning schools, safe roads, reliable infrastructure, responsible healthcare programs and support for people who truly need it.

This is not an argument for eliminating essential services.

It is an argument for demanding priorities.

Albany’s defenders will point to uncertainty surrounding federal funding and argue that New York must spend more to protect vulnerable residents. Federal decisions may indeed create difficult choices. But uncertainty is precisely when responsible leaders control recurring expenses, eliminate ineffective programs, strengthen oversight and distinguish genuine needs from political wish lists.

Instead, Albany continues expanding spending while weakening the very accountability mechanisms that might help taxpayers understand where their money is going.

The comptroller warned that billions of dollars in proposed state spending could be removed from independent oversight and competitive procurement requirements. When government is spending more than ever, taxpayers should be receiving greater transparency—not less. (osc.ny.gov)

The sports-betting windfall makes the absurdity especially clear.

This revenue does not magically appear. It comes from money wagered—and often lost—by New Yorkers. Albany encourages the activity, advertises the tax revenue and then spends the proceeds as though it found a bag of cash on the steps of the Capitol.

There is also something troubling about a government becoming financially dependent upon its citizens gambling more. Once that revenue is folded into ever-growing budgets, Albany has a vested interest in keeping the bets—and the losses—coming.

At the very least, unexpected revenue should be used to reduce debt, strengthen reserves or provide permanent, broad-based tax relief. It should not become another excuse to create programs that require even more spending next year.

New Yorkers are not demanding a government that does nothing. We are asking for one that understands the difference between spending and solving.

We are asking elected officials to measure success by results rather than announcements, press conferences and the size of the next budget.

We are asking why every new tax, fee, gambling program and revenue windfall disappears into Albany without ever making life noticeably easier for the people supplying the money.

Most of all, we are asking a question Albany seems determined to avoid:

How much is enough?

For the political class, the answer is apparently always the same:

Just a little more.

For the taxpayers of New York, however, “a little more” has become far too much.

Affordability will not be achieved by expanding government in our name. It will begin when Albany learns to leave more of our money where it belongs—in our own pockets.

A Valley Viewpoint Narrative

Let me begin with something that should not be controversial: I support law enforcement.

Police officers deserve the technology, staffing, training, and community cooperation necessary to catch criminals and protect innocent people. If a camera helps locate a kidnapped child, recover a stolen vehicle, or identify someone fleeing a violent crime, that is a real and legitimate public benefit.

But supporting the police does not require us to surrender our constitutional principles—or our common sense.

Flock cameras are automated license-plate readers placed along public roads. They do not photograph only suspected criminals. They record every vehicle that passes: its license plate, location, time, direction of travel, and identifying characteristics.

Your car. My car. The schoolteacher driving home. The parishioner going to Mass. The nurse reporting for work. The political activist attending a meeting. The woman entering a medical facility. The journalist meeting a confidential source.

Everyone is recorded—not because they are suspected of doing something wrong, but because they happened to drive down a public road.

That should concern conservatives every bit as much as liberals.

We regularly hear politicians talk about limited government, personal freedom, and constitutional rights. Those principles are easy to defend when nothing is at stake. The real test comes when government offers us something useful in exchange for quietly expanding its power.

Flock cameras present precisely that test.

The company says its current default retention period is seven days, although evidence associated with an investigation may be preserved longer and governments can authorize extended retention. The system collects license-plate images, vehicle characteristics, timestamps, and camera locations. (flocksafety.com, flocksafety.com)

Supporters will say license plates are already visible in public. That is true—but it misses the point.

A police officer seeing your car at an intersection is not the same as a privately operated network creating a searchable digital record of your movements. Human observation is temporary and limited. A connected camera network can allow someone sitting behind a computer to reconstruct where a vehicle has traveled across multiple communities.

That is no longer simple observation. It is surveillance.

The question is not whether the police chief currently running the system is trustworthy. Perhaps that chief is entirely trustworthy. The question is whether the system itself contains adequate limits for every officer, employee, outside agency, future administration, and government official who may gain access to it.

Policies change. Administrations change. Technology expands. Databases are shared. Systems built for serious crimes inevitably begin attracting less serious uses.

That is how mission creep works.

A tool introduced to find stolen cars becomes a tool for investigating minor offenses. A database created to locate violent suspects becomes a convenient way to determine who attended a protest, visited a particular home, crossed state lines, or associated with someone the government considers suspicious.

Privacy advocates have already documented examples of inaccurate license-plate information, overly broad data sharing, and searches extending far beyond the violent crimes generally used to sell these systems to the public. (sls.eff.org, setarsoltani.ir)

And what happens when the system is wrong?

A bad plate reading is not merely a computer error when armed officers believe they are approaching a stolen vehicle or a dangerous suspect. It can mean an innocent driver being surrounded, ordered from a car, handcuffed, or placed in danger because an algorithm, database, or human operator made a mistake.

Technology does not eliminate human error. It can multiply it—and give that error the appearance of certainty.

None of this means law enforcement should be denied every modern investigative tool. It means those tools must be targeted, transparent, and accountable.

Before any town, county, or police agency installs Flock cameras, the public deserves clear answers:

Who can search the system? What level of suspicion is required? Is a warrant necessary? Which outside agencies can access locally collected information? How long is the information retained? Who audits searches for misuse? Will every search require a legitimate case number? What penalties apply when someone violates the rules? And will residents be told how often the cameras actually solve serious crimes?

“Trust us” is not a privacy policy.

If a community nevertheless adopts this technology, its use should be narrowly limited to serious crimes, stolen vehicles, missing persons, and genuine threats to public safety. Every search should be documented and independently audited. Data sharing should be restricted. Retention should be as short as possible. Officials should publish regular reports, and the entire program should expire unless elected representatives publicly vote to renew it.

Those are not anti-police restrictions. They protect police departments from misuse, scandal, and the loss of public trust.

The Fourth Amendment was not written because the Founders distrusted every individual government official. It was written because they understood that unchecked government power will eventually be abused, regardless of the good intentions that accompanied its creation.

Flock cameras may help solve crimes. That fact deserves acknowledgment.

But usefulness alone has never been the measure of whether government should possess a particular power. A camera inside every home might solve crimes, too. We would reject that proposition immediately because some boundaries should not be crossed merely in the name of efficiency.

Americans should not be required to choose between effective law enforcement and personal liberty. We can support the police without accepting a system that records the movements of thousands of innocent people to locate the relatively few who may have committed a crime.

Public safety matters.

So does the presumption of innocence.

And free citizens should be able to drive to work, worship, visit friends, attend meetings, seek medical care, and live their lives without government quietly assembling a searchable history of where they have been.

Once we build the machinery of mass surveillance, we cannot guarantee that only honorable people will operate it—or that it will always be used for honorable purposes.

That is why the time to establish limits is before the cameras go up, not after the public discovers how they have been used.

To comfort the afflicted…and afflict the comfortable.

The Valley Viewpoint is launching a Courtwatch Program across the Hudson Valley — in both federal and state courts.

Why? Because justice must be seen to be real.
Too often, bail and pretrial hearings happen out of sight—impacting jobs, families, and futures. We’re changing that.

👀 What we’ll do:

Use virtual court access to observe hearings

Train local volunteers to serve as “eyes and ears”

Report findings back to YOU, the community

⚖️ If you have an issue in federal or state court, let us know. We want to hear your story.

👉 Want to get involved or share an issue? Contact us:
📧 kowalski@thevalleyviewpoint.net

📞 845-518-1943

TheValleyViewpoint #HudsonValley #Courtwatch #JusticeMatters

First off, we’ve got more rules than a Catholic school cafeteria. Taxes? Confiscatory. Regulations? Smothering. And behind it all is the old boys’ network, greased by special interests from Buffalo to Montauk. Doesn’t matter if it’s a Democrat or Republican running the show—everyone’s making sure their slice of the pie is safely wrapped in tinfoil. The rare soul who dares to put public interest ahead of self-interest usually lasts about as long as a cannoli at a church picnic.

Then there’s the people. A whole state full of folks who think they’re entitled to something that isn’t theirs. And no, I’m not even talking about welfare. I’m talking about the “not in my backyard” brigade. The jealous neighbor who suddenly turns into Ralph Nader the minute you propose building anything within ten miles of their mailbox. Or the transplant from Brooklyn who “found their little slice of heaven” upstate and now wants to put a “Closed” sign on the county line. Never mind that their perfect farmhouse used to be a cornfield. Change for me? Fine. Change for thee? Absolutely not.

And God help you if you try to build something. You’ll run into setbacks, greenspace mandates, and enough forms to wallpaper the Empire State Building. Then the state piles on with regulations that cost tens of thousands and take years to process. By the time you get your permit, your grandkids are old enough to inherit the project.

Want an example of runaway spending? Look no further than education. New York shells out a mind-blowing $36,293 per kid, per year. That’s Ivy League money. And yet half those kids still end up in remedial math and English when they hit college. Try trimming the fat and suddenly every special interest in the state forms a human shield around the budget. Your kids? Meh. What really matters is protecting everyone’s “slice of the pie.”

So there you have it. New York: the land of high taxes, higher regulations, and the highest concentration of people who don’t want you doing a blessed thing near their backyard. But hey—at least we’ve got great bagels.

The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court has publicly reprimanded Judge Shelley Joseph for her conduct during a 2018 courthouse incident in which an undocumented immigrant avoided an ICE agent waiting to arrest him.

The court did not find that Joseph knew about—or authorized—the defendant’s departure through a rear courthouse door. That distinction matters. Judges, like everyone else, should be judged on evidence rather than political assumptions.

But the court also refused to pretend that nothing improper happened.

After learning that an ICE officer was waiting inside the Newton District Court, Joseph participated in an off-the-record discussion about the defendant’s case. She suggested that he might be held overnight in state custody, despite there apparently being no lawful basis to detain him. She also directed that the courtroom’s audio-recording system be turned off.

The defendant was later released through a rear exit while the federal agent waited elsewhere in the courthouse.

Perhaps Joseph did not know precisely how the defendant would leave. Perhaps she never expressly approved an escape plan. But judges are held to a higher standard than merely avoiding provable participation in misconduct. They are responsible for preserving public confidence that courtrooms are places where the law is applied—not maneuvered around according to the political sympathies of the person wearing the robe.

That is why the court’s finding of an “appearance of impropriety” is more consequential than the carefully qualified language might suggest.

An ordinary citizen watching this unfold could reasonably ask some uncomfortable questions: Why was the recording turned off? Why was detaining the defendant overnight even discussed? Why did the defendant ultimately leave through a back door while an ICE agent waited to take him into custody?

Those questions do not disappear simply because investigators could not prove that Joseph personally authorized the exit.

Federal obstruction charges filed against Joseph in 2019 were dropped in 2022 after she agreed to submit the matter to Massachusetts’ judicial disciplinary process. The Commission on Judicial Conduct initially pursued much stronger sanctions, but a hearing officer ultimately concluded that the evidence did not establish that Joseph knowingly participated in the defendant’s evasion. The state’s highest court unanimously adopted the recommendation of a public reprimand. The official Massachusetts decision⁠ and Reuters’ account of the ruling⁠ detail that history.

The reprimand was warranted. But after eight years of investigations, criminal proceedings, disciplinary hearings and legal argument, it also feels strikingly modest.

This case was never only about immigration. It was about whether a judge’s personal views—or even the appearance of those views—could influence what happened inside a courtroom.

State judges are free to disagree with federal immigration policy. They may believe ICE enforcement is too aggressive, unfair or politically motivated. They may express those views as private citizens within the ethical restrictions governing judicial conduct.

What they may not do is allow the courthouse to appear to become a sanctuary from federal law.

The rule of law cannot depend upon which laws a particular judge finds morally acceptable. If conservative judges attempted to help defendants evade federal gun laws, environmental regulations or civil-rights enforcement, their political opponents would rightly condemn it. The principle cannot change simply because immigration is the issue and resistance to ICE is fashionable in certain jurisdictions.

Judicial integrity requires more than good intentions. It requires transparency, restraint and fidelity to lawful procedure—especially when a case involves a politically charged subject.

Turning off the recorder was not transparent. Discussing detention without a lawful basis was not restrained. And creating circumstances that appeared to help someone avoid federal authorities did not strengthen confidence in the administration of justice.

Judge Joseph may not have knowingly arranged an escape. The evidence did not prove that she did. But her actions helped create a courthouse scene that looked less like impartial justice and more like institutional resistance.

The public reprimand acknowledges that damage. Whether it adequately addresses it is another question.

Because when citizens enter a courtroom, they should not have to wonder whether the law will be applied as written—or filtered through the politics of the person sitting behind the bench.

There is nothing wrong with an elected official using social media to communicate with the public. In today’s world, it would be political malpractice not to.

But there is a vast difference between communicating directly with citizens and quietly assembling an online army to distribute government-approved talking points while pretending to offer independent commentary.

That is the disturbing line Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s administration appears to have crossed.

According to reporting by the Columbia Journalism Review, City Hall created a private Signal channel through which nearly 200 social-media influencers reportedly received daily updates, talking points and video clips from the administration. Some were granted interviews and special access to the mayor, while certain city agencies reportedly entered paid promotional arrangements with content creators.

City Hall insists it has never paid influencers for favorable coverage. But that narrow denial misses the larger issue.

Access has value. Interviews have value. Visibility has value. And when creators know that favorable treatment may lead to future opportunities, the distinction between independent commentary and government public relations becomes increasingly difficult to see.

It becomes even more troubling when we examine the people who were allegedly welcomed into this privileged circle.

A New York Post column reports that some members of the network have celebrated the murder of Charlie Kirk, endorsed violence against ICE agents, described America as operating “concentration camps,” called for the abolition of police and prisons, and excused violence directed at a synagogue.

These are not merely disagreements over tax policy or municipal spending. This is rhetoric that dehumanizes political opponents and, in some cases, appears to normalize violence.

The mayor’s office argues that inclusion in the group does not amount to an endorsement of everything an influencer has ever said. That is fair—as far as it goes. Public officials routinely speak with reporters and commentators whose opinions they reject.

But these individuals were reportedly not simply asking questions at an open press conference. They were being supplied with government messaging through a private communications channel and given a level of access unavailable to ordinary New Yorkers.

That creates a responsibility to explain who was included, how they were selected and whether public resources were used to support the operation.

The secrecy surrounding the arrangement makes matters worse. Messages in the Signal group were reportedly set to disappear automatically, despite New York’s requirements governing the preservation of official records. The administration has acknowledged that the disappearing-message setting was improper, and the New York City Council has scheduled an oversight hearing.

That hearing must be more than political theater.

Council members should demand a complete list of participating influencers, all communications sent through the channel, the criteria used to select its members and a full accounting of payments made by city agencies—or by contractors acting on their behalf.

New Yorkers also deserve to know whether influencers were expected to identify their relationship with City Hall when sharing administration-generated material.

The central issue is not whether Mamdani’s supporters are liberal, socialist or conservative. Government should be free to communicate its policies, and citizens should be free to support them.

The issue is disclosure.

When a newspaper endorses a candidate, readers know they are reading an editorial. When a campaign purchases an advertisement, the public is told who paid for it. When a government agency issues a press release, the source is clearly identified.

But when official talking points are passed through supposedly independent social-media personalities, government messaging can masquerade as spontaneous public opinion.

That is not transparency. It is political influence conducted behind a digital curtain.

The dangers extend well beyond one mayor or one political party. A Republican administration could use the same method to reward conservative creators, freeze out critics and manufacture the appearance of grassroots support. The standard cannot change depending upon who occupies City Hall.

This matters in the Hudson Valley, too.

County executives, town supervisors, school districts and public authorities increasingly bypass traditional journalism and communicate through carefully cultivated online supporters. Residents should always ask who created the message, who supplied the information and whether the person presenting it received money, access or some other benefit.

Social media has already blurred the boundary between reporting, entertainment and activism. Government should not be permitted to blur it further by quietly turning influencers into an unofficial communications department.

Charlie Kirk believed in confronting opposing ideas through debate. Celebrating his murder is not political discourse. Suggesting that violence is an acceptable answer to speech is not activism. It is moral cowardice.

Mayor Mamdani cannot be held personally responsible for every offensive statement made by every individual who supports him. But he can—and should—be held responsible for the people his administration chooses to elevate, brief and reward with privileged access.

Free speech protects the right of these influencers to reveal exactly who they are.

Government transparency requires City Hall to reveal exactly what relationship it has with them.

New Yorkers deserve facts, not manufactured enthusiasm. They deserve an independent press, not an influencer chorus repeating the government’s daily script.

And they deserve to know when City Hall is speaking—even when it is using someone else’s voice.

There are few institutions in American life that demand more trust than the judiciary. Federal judges possess enormous power. They can take away liberty, determine the fate of property, compel compliance with court orders and hold ordinary citizens in contempt. Their rulings can alter lives permanently.

With that power must come a standard of conduct considerably higher than the one expected in an ordinary workplace.

That is why the case involving U.S. District Judge Eleanor Ross—and the federal judiciary’s response to it—deserves far more attention than it has received.

According to the Eleventh Circuit’s own investigation, the judge engaged in an extramarital relationship with a high-ranking police officer, including sexual activity inside judicial chambers during working hours. Court employees were close enough to hear what was occurring. The judge also attended a partisan political event and initially made false statements to fellow judges investigating the allegations.

These are not merely accusations supplied by political opponents. They are findings contained in the judiciary’s own official record. The investigating committee concluded that the behavior was “wholly inappropriate and unfitting of a federal judge” and that the false statements were “egregious.” Eleventh Circuit Judicial Council order⁠

And the punishment?

A private reprimand.

The judge also agreed to apologize to six former law clerks, relinquish the possibility of someday serving as chief judge and refrain indefinitely from serving on Judicial Conference committees. A national judicial panel subsequently upheld that discipline as “appropriate and proportionate.” Reuters⁠

Appropriate and proportionate?

Imagine an ordinary federal employee engaging in sexual activity in a government office during working hours, creating an uncomfortable environment for subordinates and then making false statements when questioned by superiors. Would that employee receive a confidential letter and be permitted to continue working as though little had happened?

Imagine an attorney appearing before a federal judge and making demonstrably false representations during an official inquiry. Would the court respond with such extraordinary patience and concern for the attorney’s rehabilitation?

We know the answer.

This is not principally about adultery, private morality or partisan politics. It is about conduct inside a federal courthouse. It is about the effect that conduct had on court employees. It is about honesty during an official judicial investigation. Most importantly, it is about whether those who administer justice are willing to impose upon themselves anything resembling the standards they impose upon everyone else.

House Judiciary Committee Chairman Jim Jordan, Courts Subcommittee Chairman Darrell Issa and Congressman Clay Fuller are now asking Eleventh Circuit Chief Judge William Pryor to explain why such serious misconduct produced only a private reprimand. They have reportedly requested information about whether members of the Judicial Council believed stronger discipline was warranted and how this punishment is supposed to strengthen public confidence in the courts. Bloomberg Law⁠

Those are legitimate questions.

The committee explained its leniency by citing the judge’s eventual correction of the false statements, the perceived unlikelihood that the conduct would be repeated and an otherwise exemplary judicial record. Rehabilitation and genuine remorse should certainly matter. But eventual candor is not the same thing as immediate honesty—particularly when the truth emerges only after an investigation has begun uncovering the evidence.

Federal courts regularly instruct litigants that honesty is not optional, court orders are not suggestions and respect for the judicial process is essential. Those principles cannot apply only to the people standing before the bench. They must apply with even greater force to the person sitting behind it.

Judicial independence is essential to our constitutional system. Judges must be protected from intimidation and political retaliation simply because someone dislikes a ruling. But judicial independence cannot be transformed into judicial immunity from meaningful accountability. Independence protects judges in the honest exercise of their duties; it should never become a shield for personal misconduct or dishonesty.

The judiciary’s largely internal disciplinary system also presents an unavoidable problem: judges investigating judges, judging the seriousness of another judge’s behavior and then deciding how much the public is permitted to know. Even when that process is conducted conscientiously, secrecy creates the appearance of institutional self-protection.

That appearance alone damages public confidence.

Respect for the courts cannot be commanded by a robe, a lifetime appointment or the threat of contempt. It must be earned through impartiality, integrity, transparency and a willingness to acknowledge institutional failure.

The public is not asking federal judges to be perfect. It is asking them to live under the same rules they enforce—and to tell the truth when they fail.

A courthouse cannot credibly demand accountability from everyone who enters it while quietly lowering the standard for those who preside over it.