The Valley Viewpoint

Returning to my New York City office has reminded me of something I had almost forgotten:

Manhattan may be the greatest people-watching city in the world.

Unfortunately, nobody is watching anybody anymore.

They’re watching their phones.

Walking through Midtown these days is like participating in a giant human obstacle course populated by twenty- and thirty-somethings with their heads down, AirPods firmly implanted and absolutely no apparent awareness that several million other people also live here.

Yet somehow they don’t collide.

It’s remarkable.

They can text, scroll Instagram, listen to a podcast, order lunch, check their 401(k), swipe right on someone in Brooklyn and cross Sixth Avenue against the light without ever looking up.

Meanwhile, I’m still stopping at the corner trying to remember whether the little white man means “walk” or “you have six seconds to make peace with your Creator.”

And then there are the young women.

Apparently Carrie Bradshaw reproduced.

Everywhere.

Manhattan is filled with young women who appear to have graduated from the Carrie Bradshaw School of Urban Living.

Designer-looking handbag? Check.

Shoes engineered with absolutely no consideration for the human skeletal system? Check.

Coffee in one hand, iPhone in the other? Check.

Walking down the sidewalk with the confidence of someone who pays $4,800 a month for an apartment roughly the size of my first refrigerator?

Absolutely.

You expect Sarah Jessica Parker to suddenly appear from behind a scaffolding and announce:

The answer, Carrie, is me.

“And I couldn’t help but wonder…if everyone in Manhattan is staring at their phone, who’s looking at me?”

Because apparently I’m the only person left looking around.

The men aren’t much different.

They’ve got backpacks, AirPods and sneakers that cost more than my first car. They’re moving at approximately 11 miles per hour while conducting conference calls with people in Singapore.

Occasionally one will walk directly toward me without looking up.

I used to move.

I’ve stopped.

This has become my contribution to science.

I want to know exactly how close a 27-year-old investment banker can get to a 68-year-old man before his peripheral vision activates.

So far: about fourteen inches.

And then there’s the earbud phenomenon.

Everyone has them.

We’ve somehow reached the point where being alone with your own thoughts for three consecutive city blocks is apparently considered a medical emergency.

There must always be something playing.

Music.

Podcasts.

Audiobooks.

Conference calls.

True crime.

Meditation apps telling people to be present while they walk through Manhattan completely unaware of their surroundings.

“Breathe deeply. Notice the world around you.”

Sir, there’s a bus coming.

But beneath all the humor, there’s something fascinating about returning to the city and seeing it through older eyes.

When I was younger, Manhattan felt like a place you had to conquer.

You hurried.

You competed.

You wanted to get somewhere.

Now I find myself wanting to slow down and watch it.

Because the greatest show in New York has never been on Broadway.

It’s the sidewalks.

The characters.

The cab drivers.

The doormen.

The tourists standing motionless in the middle of the sidewalk while studying Google Maps, thereby violating one of New York’s most serious criminal statutes.

The guy selling umbrellas thirty seconds after the first raindrop falls.

The woman walking a dog wearing a sweater that probably costs more than mine.

And, of course, the endless parade of Carrie Bradshaws heading somewhere fabulous.

So here’s my modest suggestion to the younger generation.

Every once in a while, take out the AirPods.

Put the phone away.

Look up.

Make eye contact.

Say hello.

Notice the buildings.

Listen to the horns.

Watch the people.

Experience New York without a screen between you and it.

You may be surprised by what you discover.

And if you’re one of those young Carrie Bradshaws walking down Fifth Avenue in six-inch heels while simultaneously texting, drinking coffee and carrying a $3,000 handbag, don’t worry about me.

I’ll get out of your way.

I’m 68.

My reflexes aren’t what they used to be.

But unlike you…

I’m actually looking where I’m going.

Ed in the City
Observations from a guy who remembers when walking down the street required looking at the street.

There is an irony in Zohran Mamdani’s story that is almost impossible to ignore.

It begins not in New York City, but thousands of miles away in Uganda.

In 1972, dictator Idi Amin ordered tens of thousands of Asians to leave the country. They were given roughly 90 days to pack what they could carry and go. Businesses were seized. Homes were lost. Families that had spent generations building lives in Uganda suddenly discovered that the government had decided they were no longer welcome.

Among those forced out was the family of Mahmood Mamdani — Zohran Mamdani’s father.

Think about that for a moment.

A government looked at a group of people, decided they were too prosperous, too privileged and too closely associated with an unjust economic system, and turned resentment into public policy.

It didn’t begin with confiscation.

It began with a story.

There were people who had too much.

There were people who had too little.

And government, under Amin, would supposedly correct the injustice.

The Asian community became a convenient villain. Their businesses, property and relative economic success were portrayed not simply as individual achievement, but as evidence of exploitation.

Once we stop seeing people as individuals and start seeing them primarily as members of competing classes, races and economic groups, some very ugly things can suddenly be described as “justice.”

That is the lesson from Uganda worth remembering.

And it is why I find Zohran Mamdani’s political rise so fascinating.

No, Mamdani is not Idi Amin. Saying so would be historically absurd and intellectually lazy. Mamdani is an elected democratic socialist operating within the American political system. Amin was a murderous dictator responsible for repression, expulsion and mass killing.

But history doesn’t have to repeat itself exactly to teach us something.

Sometimes it rhymes.

Today, we once again hear a political vocabulary increasingly built around dividing people into categories.

Landlords and tenants.

Owners and workers.

The wealthy and everyone else.

The privileged and the oppressed.

Those who supposedly have too much and those government believes deserve more.

The rhetoric is softer. The institutions are democratic. The circumstances are completely different.

But the temptation behind it is ancient: find somebody to blame for somebody else’s hardship.

Mamdani’s agenda promises government intervention on a remarkable scale — rent freezes, government-run grocery stores, free buses, expanded social programs and substantially higher taxes on corporations and wealthy New Yorkers.

Each proposal can and should be debated on its own merits.

But there is a larger philosophical question underneath all of them:

When did success become something government should apologize for?

There is nothing inherently immoral about wealth. There is nothing inherently virtuous about poverty. A landlord isn’t automatically a villain because he owns an apartment building, any more than a tenant is automatically irresponsible because she struggles to pay the rent.

Human beings are more complicated than political categories.

That used to be obvious.

Increasingly, it isn’t.

And perhaps that is the strangest part of the Mamdani story.

His own family’s history contains a powerful warning about what can happen when political leaders convince people that their economic problems are primarily the fault of another group.

Uganda’s Asian population didn’t create all of Uganda’s problems.

But Amin told people they did.

Their property was redistributed.

Their businesses were taken.

The supposed exploiters were expelled.

And Uganda didn’t become prosperous.

Its economy collapsed.

Because redistribution can divide wealth.

It cannot magically create it.

Government can confiscate a grocery store. It cannot confiscate the knowledge, discipline, risk-taking and entrepreneurship required to operate one successfully.

Government can freeze a rent. It cannot order someone to build another apartment building.

Government can raise taxes on people it believes have “too much.” It cannot order those people to remain in New York.

That last point should concern every New Yorker.

We are already living in one of the highest-taxed states in America. Businesses can move. Capital can move. Families can move.

And eventually they do.

The tragedy is that the people who suffer most from bad economic policy are rarely the wealthy people politicians promise to punish.

The wealthy have options.

Working families often don’t.

There is another lesson from Uganda that deserves remembering.

When politicians tell you society would be better if only somebody else had less, be careful.

When they tell you prosperity is suspicious, be careful.

When they tell you your neighbor’s success explains your hardship, be very careful.

Because free societies depend upon something much more difficult than resentment.

They depend upon opportunity.

The goal shouldn’t be to make successful people poorer.

It should be to make it possible for more people to become successful.

Build more housing.

Encourage businesses to open.

Make it easier to hire people.

Create better schools.

Make government smaller, smarter and more accountable.

Give people ladders to climb instead of arguing about who should be pulled down a rung.

Zohran Mamdani’s family history should make him uniquely sensitive to that distinction.

His family experienced what happens when government turns economic grievance into a political identity and decides that one group must surrender something so another group can prosper.

That doesn’t mean New York is becoming Uganda.

It means Uganda left us a warning.

History usually does.

The question is whether we’re willing to listen before we convince ourselves that this time the same old ideas will somehow produce a different result.

The Valley Viewpoint

Your towns. Your schools. Your politics.

I’ve been getting a lot of questions lately about the Luigi Mangione case, and one question keeps coming up: How can someone potentially face both state and federal prosecution arising out of the same alleged killing? Doesn’t the Constitution prohibit double jeopardy?

It sounds like it should. But under longstanding Supreme Court precedent, the answer is more complicated.

The key is something called the dual sovereignty doctrine.

The Fifth Amendment says that no person shall “be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb.” Most of us understand that as the government doesn’t get to prosecute you over and over again for the same crime.

And generally, that’s right.

But the Supreme Court has long held that the federal government and the individual states are separate sovereigns. Each derives its authority from a different source and each has its own laws to enforce.

That distinction matters enormously in the Mangione case.

Under the dual sovereignty doctrine, when the same alleged conduct violates both state and federal law, the Constitution does not necessarily treat those prosecutions as being for the same “offence.” Instead, the law views them as separate offenses against two separate sovereigns.

In other words, New York can prosecute an alleged violation of New York law, while the federal government can separately prosecute an alleged violation of federal law arising from the same underlying conduct.

That isn’t considered unconstitutional double jeopardy.

The Supreme Court reaffirmed this principle as recently as 2019 in Gamble v. United States. In that case, the Court rejected an invitation to overturn the dual sovereignty doctrine and reaffirmed the principle that an “offence” is defined by the law that creates it. Because state and federal governments enact their laws independently, violations of those laws can constitute separate offenses for purposes of the Double Jeopardy Clause.

The doctrine isn’t limited to state-versus-federal prosecutions, either.

In certain circumstances, two different states may prosecute conduct implicating the laws of both jurisdictions. Tribal sovereignty can also produce circumstances in which successive prosecutions are constitutionally permissible.

The underlying theory is fairly straightforward: each sovereign has an independent interest in enforcing its own laws.

Think about a criminal act that violates New York law but also interferes with an area specifically regulated by Congress. New York has an interest in enforcing its criminal laws and protecting people within its jurisdiction. The United States may have a separate federal interest established by Congress.

One prosecution does not automatically extinguish the other’s authority.

And that brings us back to Luigi Mangione.

There has been understandable confusion surrounding the fact that Mangione faces separate state and federal proceedings connected to the December 2024 killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson. People naturally look at that and ask: How can the government prosecute someone twice for essentially the same alleged conduct?

The constitutional answer is that we’re not talking about one government prosecuting someone twice.

We’re talking about two sovereign governments exercising separate prosecutorial authority.

Now, whether prosecutors should pursue overlapping cases is a different question from whether they constitutionally can. There are Justice Department policies and practical considerations surrounding successive prosecutions, and defendants can certainly challenge particular charges or procedures on other constitutional and statutory grounds.

But the Double Jeopardy Clause, standing alone, does not create an automatic barrier simply because a state prosecution and federal prosecution arise from the same underlying event.

That distinction is important because the Mangione case has generated an enormous amount of commentary—some of it suggesting that whichever government gets to a verdict first automatically prevents the other from continuing.

That’s not how the dual sovereignty doctrine works.

A New York prosecution does not, simply by occurring first, automatically eliminate federal prosecutorial authority. Nor does a federal prosecution automatically erase New York’s authority to enforce its own criminal laws.

You can certainly debate whether having two governments prosecute substantially the same conduct is fair, efficient or necessary. In fact, the dual sovereignty doctrine has been criticized for precisely that reason.

But as the law stands today, the constitutional rule is well established.

Double jeopardy generally prevents the same sovereign from putting someone in jeopardy twice for the same offense. It does not categorically prevent two separate sovereigns from prosecuting violations of their respective laws arising from the same conduct.

And that is the legal principle to keep in mind as the separate proceedings involving Luigi Mangione continue to unfold.

$850 Million Later, Some Bills Fans Still Can’t See the Field

There are certain things you would think $2.1 billion could buy.

A decent football stadium, for instance.

Maybe some bathrooms reasonably close to the people sitting in the upper deck.

A video board large enough to see without binoculars.

And, call me old-fashioned, but perhaps a seat from which you can actually see the football game.

Welcome to the new Highmark Stadium in Orchard Park.

The Buffalo Bills unveiled their new home to more than 50,000 fans at their August 8 “Return of the Blue & Red” practice. Almost immediately, photographs began circulating showing some pretty remarkable sightline problems. Fans complained about stairwells, railings and other obstructions, along with video boards some thought surprisingly small for a brand-new NFL stadium. (New York Post)

The Bills have responded, saying they are listening to fans and addressing concerns. The organization also says the particularly awful seats making the rounds on social media aren’t actually sold for football games, and that fewer than 1% of PSL holders have raised concerns. That’s important context. (Talksport)

But here’s where this becomes more than a Buffalo sports story.

You helped pay for it.

New York State taxpayers contributed $600 million toward the stadium.

Erie County taxpayers contributed another $250 million.

That’s $850 million in public money committed to building a stadium for one of the most valuable franchises in professional sports. Empire State Development confirms those numbers and says the Bills were responsible for the remaining costs, including construction overruns. (Empire State Development)

The final cost eventually climbed above $2.1 billion. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

Think about that for a moment.

New Yorkers were told this was an investment.

Governor Kathy Hochul’s administration argued that the stadium would keep the Bills in Western New York for the next 30 years, protect jobs and generate an economic impact exceeding the public contribution. Those aren’t frivolous considerations. The Buffalo Bills are woven into the identity and economy of Western New York. Losing the franchise would have been painful.

But government calling something an “investment” doesn’t relieve government of the obligation to explain why taxpayers should be making it.

Especially when the recipient is an NFL franchise.

This is the part of corporate welfare that has always fascinated me.

If a small business owner in Poughkeepsie wants to expand his restaurant, Albany doesn’t write him a $600 million check.

If a family-owned manufacturer in Newburgh needs a new building, taxpayers aren’t asked to construct it.

If a Hudson Valley business makes a bad investment, government generally doesn’t announce that preserving the company’s “economic impact” requires taxpayers to pick up the tab.

That’s called capitalism.

But professional sports apparently operate under a different economic system.

The profits are private.

The franchise appreciation is private.

The luxury suites generate private revenue.

The sponsorships generate private revenue.

The television contracts generate private revenue.

And somehow taxpayers end up helping build the stadium.

We have managed to create an economic philosophy in which billionaires become socialists precisely when it’s time to build an arena.

And New York didn’t simply contribute a few dollars toward infrastructure surrounding the project.

The public commitment was $850 million.

That’s real money.

Money collected from people who will never attend a Bills game.

Money collected from businesses hundreds of miles from Orchard Park.

Money collected from families struggling with property taxes, utility bills, groceries and one of the highest overall tax burdens in America.

Which is why taxpayers have every right to ask uncomfortable questions.

Was this really the best possible use of $600 million in state resources?

Could the Bills have remained in Buffalo with a smaller public subsidy?

What return are taxpayers actually receiving?

And perhaps most importantly, why does government repeatedly demand fiscal discipline from ordinary citizens while discovering extraordinary generosity whenever powerful institutions arrive at the negotiating table?

The stadium itself may ultimately turn out wonderfully.

There are already fans praising its wider concourses, improved concessions, acoustics and intimacy with the field. (Buffalo Rumblings)

And some of the early complaints may prove relatively minor once the Bills work through the opening-day problems.

But none of that changes the larger question.

Government should never become casual about spending somebody else’s money.

Governor Hochul proudly stood behind this project. Her administration called it the largest construction project in Western New York history and celebrated the completion of a stadium that will keep the Bills in Buffalo for decades. (Governor Kathy Hochul)

Fine.

Then own the investment.

Own the cost.

Own the deal.

And own the scrutiny that comes with spending $600 million belonging to New York taxpayers.

Because whether you’re a Republican, Democrat, Bills fan, Giants fan or someone who couldn’t tell Josh Allen from Woody Allen, there ought to be one principle we can agree on:

When government spends $850 million of the public’s money helping build a football stadium, the public has every right to ask whether it got its money’s worth.

And after the first weekend at the new Highmark Stadium, some Bills fans were asking an even simpler question:

Can I at least see the field?

The Valley Viewpoint

Your towns. Your schools. Your politics. And occasionally, your $850 million football stadium.

My friend Claire recently attended the wedding of her niece.

Her family was all there. Children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters—generations of one family gathered in the same place to celebrate two people beginning their life together.

And somewhere in the middle of telling me about the weekend, Claire said something that stayed with me.

She said she could see the next generation taking shape.

I thought that was a beautiful way of putting it.

Because when we’re young, we go to weddings and look forward. We see beginnings. We think about the life ahead of the bride and groom—the home they might build, the children they may have, the places they’ll go and all those years seemingly waiting patiently in front of them.

But when you’re a parent—and especially when you’re a grandparent—I think you see something different.

You see time.

You look across the room at your children and remember when they were the little ones running around at family gatherings. You remember holding their hands, getting them ready for school, sitting through games and concerts, worrying about them when they were sick and lying awake wondering whether you were making the right decisions.

Then, almost impossibly, you look across a wedding reception and those children are grown.

And now their children are the little ones running around.

That’s the part that struck me most about what Claire said.

The next generation doesn’t arrive with an announcement. There isn’t a particular morning when you wake up and realize the family has moved forward a generation.

It happens quietly while everyone is busy living.

And then occasionally life gives you a wedding.

It gathers everyone into one room and gives you the opportunity to look around.

I found myself imagining Claire doing exactly that.

Watching her children talking and laughing together. Watching her grandchildren being passed from one set of loving arms to another. Watching nieces and nephews who were once children themselves now standing as adults.

And perhaps, for just a moment, seeing all those years at once.

The children she raised now have children of their own.

The people she once protected are now protecting someone else.

The little hands she once held are now holding little hands.

There is something incredibly beautiful about that.

Because eventually every parent discovers that raising children was never really about keeping them close forever. It was about giving them enough love, confidence and security that someday they could walk away from you and build lives of their own.

And then, if you’re fortunate, they come back.

Not as the children who left, but as adults carrying children of their own.

Maybe that’s why weddings become more emotional as we get older.

We’re not simply watching two people exchange vows.

We’re watching the continuation of something.

Behind us are the people who raised us, some perhaps no longer physically present but still alive in family stories, traditions, expressions and mannerisms.

Beside us are the people with whom we traveled much of the journey.

And in front of us are our children and grandchildren, carrying pieces of all of us into a future we won’t completely see.

There is some sadness in that realization. There has to be. Time gives us these extraordinary people, but it never promises to stand still for us.

Perhaps that’s what makes a moment like Claire experienced so precious.

For one weekend, the family was together.

And while everyone else may have simply seen a wedding, I think Claire saw something more.

She saw where her family had been.

She saw where it is now.

And looking at her children and their children, she caught a glimpse of where it is going.

The next generation was taking shape right in front of her.

And perhaps one of life’s greatest gifts is living long enough—and loving deeply enough—to recognize it when it happens.

Sometimes you don’t need an investigative reporter to tell you what a political organization believes.

Sometimes you just need to read its calendar.

The Mid-Hudson Valley chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America has been organizing right here in Dutchess, Orange, Sullivan and Ulster counties.

And among the events appearing under its banner?

“Cocktails with Comrades.”

Yes, comrades.

Not my word.

Theirs.

On January 10, Mid-Hudson Valley DSA sponsored a “Cocktails with Comrades” gathering in Poughkeepsie, inviting “fellow Mid-Hudson Valley socialists” to get together, socialize and “discuss the events of the day.”

Then came Beacon.

On February 28, another “Cocktails with Comrades” gathering was scheduled at Happy Valley Arcade Bar on Main Street.

Then Poughkeepsie again.

On March 28, the organization advertised a “Cocktails with Comrades House Party,” once again inviting fellow Mid-Hudson Valley socialists to gather.

They’ve also promoted “Coffee with Comrades.”

Apparently revolution requires both caffeine and a cocktail menu.

It would be easy to laugh at all this.

And perhaps we should laugh a little.

There is something almost wonderfully absurd about importing the language of 20th-century socialist movements into the Hudson Valley and then pairing it with happy hour.

But underneath the cute branding is something considerably more serious.

These aren’t merely social gatherings.

They are community-building events.

Political movements understand something that ordinary voters frequently forget: politics isn’t built only during elections.

It’s built between elections.

It’s built over coffee.

It’s built over cocktails.

It’s built in living rooms.

It’s built through friendships.

It’s built by introducing curious people to activists and eventually turning some of those people into organizers, volunteers, campaign workers and candidates.

That is why dismissing democratic socialism as a fringe movement would be a mistake.

The people involved are organizing.

They are meeting.

They are building relationships.

They are discussing politics.

And they are doing it locally.

Right here in the Hudson Valley.

There is nothing illegal or improper about that. Americans have every constitutional right to organize around socialist ideas, just as other Americans have every right to organize against them.

But voters should understand what is happening.

Because this isn’t simply a debate over whether Albany should spend another billion dollars on a government program.

The Democratic Socialists of America advocates a fundamentally different conception of economic power—one that seeks far greater democratic and social control over the economy rather than relying primarily upon private ownership and markets.

That deserves scrutiny.

There is an enormous difference between maintaining a social safety net and fundamentally restructuring capitalism.

America has Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, unemployment insurance, public education and countless other government programs.

Those programs exist inside an economy where people can still start businesses, own property, invest their savings, employ workers and take financial risks.

Socialism asks a much bigger question:

Who should control the economy?

And increasingly that conversation isn’t taking place in some university seminar.

It’s taking place over cocktails in Poughkeepsie.

That should get our attention.

Because political movements rarely begin by capturing Congress.

They build from the ground up.

A neighborhood organization.

A protest.

A political education group.

A candidate.

A school board.

A town board.

A county legislature.

A state Assembly seat.

And eventually policies that once sounded radical become part of the mainstream political conversation.

That’s how democracy works.

And democratic socialists understand it very well.

The rest of us should understand it too.

The answer isn’t preventing them from meeting.

The answer isn’t censorship.

The answer isn’t even outrage.

The answer is sunlight.

Read their websites.

Read their platforms.

Read their event calendars.

Ask candidates whether they belong to these organizations.

Ask which policies they support.

Ask what “social ownership” means.

Ask what happens to private investment and businesses when government increasingly determines how capital should be allocated.

Ask how much government is enough.

And perhaps most importantly:

Ask who eventually pays for all of it.

New York is already one of the most heavily taxed and regulated states in America. Families wonder whether they can afford to remain here. Businesses calculate whether expansion elsewhere makes more sense. Retirees compare New York with states where their savings stretch considerably further.

Against that backdrop, the rise of an organized socialist movement in the Hudson Valley isn’t something voters should simply shrug off.

So enjoy the clever names.

Coffee with Comrades.

Cocktails with Comrades.

Maybe someday they’ll introduce Martinis with Marx.

I’ll even concede that’s pretty good marketing.

But don’t let the whimsical branding obscure what is happening underneath it.

Political movements are built through relationships.

Relationships become organizations.

Organizations elect candidates.

Candidates make laws.

And laws eventually reach your business, your paycheck, your property and your kitchen table.

So perhaps the most revealing thing about the Mid-Hudson Valley socialist movement isn’t buried inside some obscure political manifesto.

It’s sitting right there on the calendar.

The comrades are getting together.

The question is whether the rest of the Hudson Valley is paying attention.

— The Valley Viewpoint

During this year’s New York bar exam, according to multiple examinees, a candidate in the testing room appeared to suffer a serious medical emergency—and while people looked on in confusion and alarm, proctors allegedly instructed everyone to keep writing.

Keep going. Don’t stop. Finish Question 14.

That is the claim now under review by the New York State Board of Law Examiners, which disputes portions of the accounts and is investigating what actually happened. It should. The facts matter, and they need to be established carefully.

But if even part of what witnesses describe is accurate, then something went profoundly wrong in that room.

Think about the absurdity.

Thousands of aspiring lawyers gathered to prove they possess the judgment necessary to uphold justice. Yet, according to numerous examinees, when a fellow candidate suffered what appeared to be a life-threatening medical emergency, the immediate concern wasn’t simply, “Help this person.”

Instead, witnesses describe proctors telling examinees to keep working.

Imagine that.

Someone’s life may have been hanging in the balance, and the response—according to those in the room—was essentially, “Please continue answering Question 14.”

That isn’t just a policy failure.

It’s institutional insanity.

We’ve created organizations so obsessed with procedure that common sense has become an act of rebellion.

We’ve convinced employees that deviating from protocol is more dangerous than ignoring what’s unfolding right in front of them.

Somewhere, someone apparently thought the greater risk was interrupting an exam—not losing a human being.

How does that happen?

It happens when bureaucracy replaces judgment.

When compliance replaces courage.

When employees spend years being taught that their job is to follow the manual instead of thinking for themselves.

The irony couldn’t be richer.

The legal profession spends its career arguing about the “reasonable person” standard.

What would a reasonable person do?

A reasonable person doesn’t ask whether the emergency response is on page 47 of the operations manual.

A reasonable person calls 911.

A reasonable person begins CPR.

A reasonable person clears the room.

A reasonable person doesn’t worry about whether someone gets an extra fifteen minutes on the essay portion of the exam.

We’ve become a culture that sometimes treats paperwork as sacred and people as incidental.

The bar exam isn’t the only place this happens.

Hospitals bury nurses under documentation while patients wait.

Schools suspend children for pointing a finger like a toy gun but struggle to remove violent students from classrooms.

Government agencies spend months determining which department has authority while citizens wait for help.

Businesses hold meetings about customer service instead of serving customers.

The absurdity is no longer the exception.

It’s becoming the operating philosophy.

Here’s the reality.

No one has ever stood before a jury and defended themselves by saying, “Yes, but I followed the procedure.”

People remember whether you did the right thing.

Not whether you checked the right box.

If the allegations surrounding this incident are even partially true, every organization in America should be asking itself one uncomfortable question:

Have we trained our people to follow rules—or to exercise judgment?

Because if the answer is the former, then we’ve passed the wrong test.

And it raises an even more unsettling question: could this be why so many federal judges are unhinged—so steeped in procedural rigidity and institutional deference that common sense sometimes feels like a foreign language rather than a guiding principle?

The older I get, the more convinced I become that generosity has very little to do with money.

Last night, I found myself watching an old episode of ER. Dr. Mark Greene was dying, and in one of his final conversations with his daughter, he offered her a simple piece of advice: “Always be generous.”

Of all the lessons a father could leave his child, that was the one he chose.

I’ve known people with very modest incomes who were incredibly generous. They never seemed to have much, yet they were always the first to buy a cup of coffee, lend a hand, or make room at their table for one more person.

It stayed with me long after the credits rolled.

I’ve also met people who had everything money could buy but guarded every minute, every compliment, and every opportunity to help someone else.

Generosity is a way of living. It’s a decision.

During my years in the law and in human resources, I saw generosity at its best—and its absence at its worst. I watched attorneys who understood that justice wasn’t simply about winning a case but about treating people with dignity. I worked with leaders who looked beyond a résumé and took a chance on someone with character but little experience. Those acts of generosity didn’t just fill jobs or resolve disputes; they changed lives.

I also learned that generosity has nothing to do with being weak. You can hold people accountable and still treat them with respect. You can make difficult decisions and still preserve another person’s dignity. In fact, some of the strongest leaders I’ve known were also the most generous—with their time, their wisdom, and their willingness to help others succeed.

In broadcasting, I experienced another kind of generosity. Every morning, thousands of people invited me into their homes and cars. They shared their stories with me, laughed with me, disagreed with me, and trusted me enough to become part of their daily routine. That kind of trust is a gift. It reminds you that relationships are built one conversation at a time.

I’ve discovered the same thing in my personal life.

Sometimes generosity is simply giving someone your undivided attention. Putting the phone down. Listening without planning your next response. Laughing together over something that no one else would understand. Letting another person know they are seen, appreciated, and loved.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also realized that generosity isn’t limited to what we give to strangers. Sometimes the hardest person to be generous with is the one closest to us. It takes generosity to forgive. It takes generosity to apologize. It takes generosity to assume good intentions instead of the worst.

As I thought about Dr. Greene’s words, I realized they weren’t really about money or gifts. They were about the kind of person we choose to become. We can be generous with our patience when someone is struggling, generous with our praise when someone succeeds, generous with our forgiveness when someone falls short, and generous with our love while we still have the opportunity to give it.

When my life is over, I doubt anyone will remember the titles I held or the positions listed on my résumé. I hope they’ll remember something much simpler.

That I tried to be generous.

Generous with my time.

Generous with my words.

Generous with encouragement.

Generous with forgiveness.

Because in the end, our legacy isn’t built by what we accumulate. It’s built by what we freely give to others.

And perhaps that’s why a dying father chose those three simple words as one of his final lessons to his daughter:

Always be generous.

One of the most fascinating political stories unfolding in New York isn’t simply Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s agenda. It’s the reaction—or perhaps more accurately, the lack of reaction—from many of the business leaders who will be expected to operate under it.

A recent New York Post editorial argues that despite Mayor Mamdani’s increasingly confrontational approach toward the business community, many of New York’s corporate leaders continue to remain publicly silent. The editorial points to decisions that have further strained relations, including removing longtime business leaders from advisory roles connected to the Mayor’s Fund while advancing an agenda that many executives believe is openly skeptical of private enterprise. (New York Post)

Whether one agrees with Mamdani’s policies or not is almost beside the point.

The larger question is why so many influential business executives seem unwilling to publicly challenge policies they privately acknowledge could damage New York City’s economic future.

Businesses make investment decisions based on predictability. They hire employees when they believe the climate is stable. They expand when government views them as partners rather than adversaries. When elected officials repeatedly portray employers as obstacles instead of engines of opportunity, confidence begins to erode.

History shows that businesses rarely leave overnight. Investment slows first. Expansion plans are delayed. New projects are reconsidered. Eventually, jobs follow the capital.

What surprises me isn’t that a democratic socialist mayor is pursuing the policies he campaigned on. Voters elected him knowing his philosophy. What surprises me is how reluctant many business leaders appear to defend the very economic system that created the companies they now lead.

Leadership isn’t demonstrated when everyone agrees with you. Leadership is demonstrated when speaking carries personal or professional risk.

The business community has every right to disagree with City Hall. Likewise, City Hall has every right to pursue its vision. But silence should never become the default response when fundamental economic policies are at stake.

Healthy cities require healthy debate. Government needs business. Business needs government. Neither succeeds by treating the other as an enemy.

If corporate leaders genuinely believe current policies threaten investment, employment, or economic growth, they owe New Yorkers more than quiet conversations behind closed doors. They owe them honesty.

Because in the end, the cost of silence may prove far greater than the cost of speaking up.

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that campaigning and governing are two very different things.

Campaigns are built on promises. Leadership is measured by what happens after the election is over.

Last week, Dutchess County District Attorney Anthony Parisi announced the creation of the Smart Prosecution, Strategic Intelligence and Violence Elimination Unit. It may be a mouthful to say, but the concept behind it is both simple and important: bring prosecutors, investigators, crime analysts, and local law enforcement together from the very beginning of an investigation to identify repeat offenders, dismantle criminal organizations, and build stronger criminal cases.

It’s an idea that deserves recognition.

For decades, prosecutors often became involved after an arrest had already been made. This model turns that process around by making prosecutors active partners from the outset. That means better coordination, stronger investigations, and, hopefully, stronger prosecutions.

Anthony Parisi deserves credit for thinking beyond the traditional model.

Throughout his career, he has earned a reputation as someone who values preparation, collaboration, and professionalism. This new initiative reflects those same qualities. Rather than simply reacting to crime, his office is attempting to stay one step ahead of it.

That is good leadership.

The timing is also encouraging. Within days of announcing the unit, investigators credited the collaborative approach with helping identify repeat offenders during a significant narcotics investigation. That doesn’t prove long-term success, but it does demonstrate that this isn’t merely a press release. It is already becoming part of the way the District Attorney’s Office conducts business.

As someone who has spent much of my career evaluating organizations and leadership, I appreciate people who are willing to rethink the way things have always been done. The easiest path is to preserve the status quo. The harder path is to ask whether there is a better way.

Anthony Parisi appears to be asking that question.

Of course, every public initiative should ultimately be judged by results. Taxpayers deserve to know whether violent crime declines, whether repeat offenders are removed from our streets, whether victims receive justice more quickly, and whether the partnerships being built today produce safer communities tomorrow.

Those are fair expectations.

But leadership also deserves to be acknowledged when it demonstrates vision. Too often we wait to criticize when something goes wrong, yet hesitate to recognize public officials when they introduce thoughtful, innovative ideas that have the potential to improve government.

This is one of those ideas.

The overwhelming majority of police officers, investigators, and prosecutors come to work every day with one purpose: protecting the people they serve. Giving them better tools, better communication, and better intelligence is an investment in public safety that benefits every law-abiding citizen in Dutchess County.

I hope this initiative succeeds—not because it will validate a political promise, but because every successful prosecution represents another victim who received justice, another dangerous criminal held accountable, and another family that can feel a little safer.

At the end of the day, that’s what the people of Dutchess County expect from their District Attorney.

And based on this initiative, Anthony Parisi has taken a meaningful step toward delivering exactly that.

Good government isn’t measured by the promises made during a campaign.

It’s measured by the confidence its leadership earns once the campaign is over.

I’ve been thinking a lot about freedom lately—not as a political ideal or an abstract concept, but as something that quietly evolves over the course of a life.

A friend recently shared his story with me. It didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt like someone opening an old photo album, one memory leading naturally to the next.

The first act was a bicycle.

He was just a boy, too young to call what he felt “freedom.” He only knew that everything changed the moment his feet left the ground and the pedals carried him forward. The neighborhood became an adventure. Every street was an invitation. There was nowhere he had to be, only places he wanted to discover.

He told me he never thought about life back then.

He simply lived it.

The second act arrived years later with the unmistakable rumble of a Harley.

By then, life had become more complicated. Careers, responsibilities, obligations—the weight that adulthood inevitably places on our shoulders. But the first time he twisted the throttle, something awakened inside him. It wasn’t just the sound of the engine or the miles of open road. It was the return of a feeling he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

For a little while, the demands of life fell silent.

The road asked nothing of him except that he keep moving.

Then came the third act.

Today, he finds that same feeling every morning walking his dog, Buddy.

No roaring engine. No open highway. No destination.

Just the quiet rhythm of footsteps, a faithful companion at his side, and the peaceful certainty that this moment is enough.

When he said that, I realized something.

Freedom doesn’t leave us as we grow older.

It matures.

What begins as the excitement of limitless possibility becomes the exhilaration of movement. And if we’re fortunate, it eventually becomes something even richer—the quiet contentment of simply being present.

The bicycle gave him wonder.

The Harley gave him adventure.

Buddy gave him peace.

Three chapters of one life.

Three different expressions of the same longing.

Because perhaps freedom was never measured by speed, distance, or horsepower.

Perhaps it has always been measured by those rare moments when we feel completely at home in our own lives.

Over the past several months, I’ve taken the time to read many of the motions filed by Luigi Mangione’s attorneys.

Good defense lawyers are supposed to challenge the government’s evidence. They are supposed to protect their client’s constitutional rights. That’s their job.

But these filings go much further.

They attempt to transform an accused killer into a folk hero.

They invite the public to see Luigi Mangione not as a man charged with executing another human being on a Manhattan sidewalk, but as a modern-day Robin Hood—a crusader supposedly acting on behalf of millions frustrated with America’s healthcare system.

That narrative is as dangerous as it is dishonest.

Robin Hood stole from the rich to help the poor.

He didn’t allegedly ambush an unarmed husband and father, gun him down, and then become the subject of social media fan clubs, fundraising campaigns, and celebrity worship.

Yet that is precisely what we are witnessing.

According to reports, organizations supporting Mangione are openly encouraging jury nullification—the extraordinary notion that jurors should ignore the law and acquit because they sympathize with the defendant or agree with his perceived political cause. Millions of dollars have reportedly been raised for his defense while supporters work to recast him as something other than what he is accused of being: a murderer. That should alarm every American, regardless of political ideology.

I’ve watched this strategy unfold not only in the court filings but also in the court of public opinion.

The legal arguments consistently paint a picture of a man driven by noble motives, almost inviting the public to conclude that the victim somehow represented an unjust system rather than being an individual human being.

Brian Thompson was not a symbol.

He wasn’t an abstract concept called “health insurance.”

He was a husband.

He was a father.

He was someone’s son.

He was a man who never got the chance to defend himself.

Our justice system has never recognized a political grievance as a license to kill.

Nor should it.

If anger at a corporation becomes a mitigating factor for homicide, then where does it end?

Do we excuse violence against politicians because someone dislikes government?

Against judges because someone dislikes a ruling?

Against journalists because someone dislikes a story?

Against police officers because someone dislikes law enforcement?

The answer must always be no.

There is another aspect of this case that troubles me deeply.

A generation has been raised to believe that if your cause is righteous enough, almost any tactic becomes acceptable. Violence is no longer universally condemned; it is increasingly weighed against the popularity of the grievance.

That isn’t justice.

That’s moral relativism dressed up as activism.

The defense is entitled to challenge every piece of evidence.

They are entitled to insist the government prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt.

But neither the defense nor outside advocacy groups should succeed in convincing America that political frustration somehow transforms an accused assassin into a freedom fighter.

The courtroom is not a stage.

It is not a movie.

It is not a place for mythology.

It is where facts matter, evidence matters, and human life must matter above all else.

If we begin rewarding political violence because we happen to agree with the motive, we will have crossed a line from which it will be extraordinarily difficult to return.

The rule of law cannot survive if we replace Lady Justice with Robin Hood.