Clinton-Appointed Judge Orders FBI to Destroy Evidence in Comey Case
A Clinton-appointed federal judge has ordered the FBI to destroy emails central to the obstruction and false statements case against former FBI Director James Comey, a decision that legal experts warn could cripple prosecutors’ ability to pursue a new indictment and set off a constitutional showdown over separation of powers.
U.S. District Judge Colleen Kollar-Kotelly, who sits on the D.C. District Court, issued the surprise order on December 13, directing the FBI to permanently delete all data seized from Columbia Law Professor Daniel Richman—Comey’s longtime friend and former government contractor—by 4 p.m. Monday.
The emails include key exchanges between Richman and Comey that prosecutors allege show Comey authorized leaks and false testimony about his role in Operation Crossfire Hurricane.
The ruling follows the September indictment of Comey on two counts—making false statements to Congress and obstruction of a congressional proceeding—related to his 2020 testimony about the FBI’s Trump-Russia investigation. Prosecutors allege Comey falsely denied using intermediaries to leak classified material to the press, and that he used Richman as an outside conduit for anti-Trump leaks while Richman held a government contract.
Six years ago, Judge James Boasberg—himself an Obama appointee—signed the warrant that allowed the FBI to seize Richman’s devices. But Kollar-Kotelly’s order, issued from a separate court and in a separate district, now directs the destruction of that same evidence.
“This ruling threatens the separation of powers essential to the Republic, and either the D.C. Circuit or Supreme Court must intervene immediately,” said Mike Davis, president of the Article III Project and a former Senate Judiciary Committee counsel.
Richman, who is not charged in the case, petitioned for the return of his emails under Rule 41(g) of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, arguing that the government violated his Fourth Amendment rights by seizing and reviewing his communications. Rule 41(g) typically allows a defendant to recover property obtained in an unlawful search—but in this case, Richman is a third party, not a defendant, and the communications in question include evidence against a sitting defendant, James Comey.
Despite this, Judge Kollar-Kotelly granted Richman’s motion and ordered that a single copy of the emails be provided to Judge Michael Nachmanoff, who is presiding over the Comey case in Virginia, but barred prosecutors from reviewing or relying on the material in any future filings.
“The FBI and the prosecution will be unable to review them in their efforts to seek a new indictment if [Judge Cameron] Currie’s dismissal ruling survives on appeal,” Davis said. “Even if a higher court reverses Currie, the government’s inability to review the emails to use as evidence and prepare for trial would massively hamper its case.”
Judge Currie, another Clinton appointee in South Carolina, dismissed the Comey indictment last month, ruling that the appointment of interim U.S. Attorney Lindsey Halligan—who led the prosecution—was unconstitutional. The Justice Department has appealed Currie’s ruling to the Fourth Circuit.
Davis called the ruling “unprecedented judicial sabotage,” arguing that “Richman has run to a partisan Democrat judge not even involved in the criminal case — and not even in the same district — to procure the destruction of crucial evidence in that case in an obvious effort to assist his friend Comey.”
In a separate op-ed published by Fox News, Davis warned that the decision fits a larger pattern of “leftist judicial interference” aimed at shielding political allies while undermining accountability for the Trump-era lawfare architects.
“Now, a Clinton-appointed judge in the District of Columbia, Colleen Kollar-Kotelly, has interfered even more egregiously with the government’s case,” Davis wrote. “Courts do not order the FBI to destroy evidence in pending investigations — except when the evidence is harmful to a lawfare perpetrator like Comey.”
The Justice Department is expected to seek an emergency stay from the D.C. Circuit or the U.S. Supreme Court before Monday’s deadline.
If the order stands, prosecutors may lose access to one of the few remaining troves of direct evidence linking Comey to alleged leaks and obstruction. And if higher courts fail to intervene, it could mark the first time in recent memory that a federal judge outside a criminal case has ordered the destruction of key evidence against a former FBI director.
I Tried to Stay Invisible While Cleaning His Mansion. Now, I'm the Only Weakness of a Ruthless Syndicate Boss.
“Don’t Get in the Car,” the Maid Warned While Fixing His Tie—The Mafia Boss Saw the Gun Too Late
Blood smelled like copper, but impending violence smelled like ozone and cold sweat.
Nora knew both intimately.
As she reached up to straighten Dominic’s silk tie, her knuckles brushed the steady pulse in his throat. He smelled of bergamot and bitter espresso.
Over his shoulder, through the glass double doors, she saw the driver.
His jacket hung incorrectly. A heavy metallic bulk ruined its bespoke lines.
Nora smoothed the silk.
“Your driver has a gun,” she whispered. “Don’t get in the car.”
Lemon oil and beeswax.
That was the scent of survival.
Nora moved the microfiber cloth in punishing concentric circles over the mahogany console table in the foyer. The wood was already immaculate, a dark mirror reflecting the cut-crystal chandelier overhead, but stillness inside the house was a liability.
If she stood still, she was listening.
If she was listening, she was a threat.
Nora kept her hands moving.
Her knuckles were raw, and harsh detergent had split the skin around her cuticles. Every flex of her fingers produced a mild sting.
It was a grounding pain.
It kept her awake.
Morning inside the Rossi estate was a sterile and muted affair. The walls were thick, and the carpets were plush enough to swallow the sound of a falling body.
Nora had worked there for 11 months, long enough to understand the architecture of power and the geometry of keeping her head down.
She was a maid, a ghost inside a gray uniform with white trim. Every Friday, she collected a cash envelope and deposited it directly into a checking account that was slowly and painfully building toward a 1-way ticket out of the state.
Footsteps sounded on the grand staircase.
They were not the hurried, heavy steps of the men guarding the perimeter. They were the measured, rhythmic clicks of leather against marble.
Dominic.
Nora did not look up immediately.
She moved to the side of the hall, lowered her head slightly, and blended into the damask wallpaper.
Dominic Rossi descended into the foyer, bringing a displacement of air that felt physically heavy.
He was not the hulking, scarred brute found in cheap films. He was lean, built with the coiled and wiry tension of a greyhound.
That morning, he wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Nora’s annual rent.
As he stepped from the final stair into the natural light coming through the frosted doors, Nora saw the frayed edges of his immaculate appearance.
His jaw was clenched.
Faint purple shadows beneath his dark eyes revealed nights spent staring at ceilings and calculating betrayals.
Dominic stopped beside the mirror above the console table.
He did not examine his reflection. He stared through the glass, his mind elsewhere, perhaps dissecting supply chains or arranging someone’s quiet disappearance.
Nora stood near the coat rack with his wool overcoat.
Her role was to hand it to him, open the door, and disappear.
Something was wrong.
Dominic’s tie was a heavy, woven midnight-blue silk. Its knot had been pulled slightly to the left, causing the collar of his white shirt to pinch awkwardly.
For anyone else, it would have meant nothing.
For Dominic Rossi, a man who controlled his surroundings with terrifying precision, it was an alarm.
He was distracted.
Dangerously so.
Nora stepped forward.
Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked softly against the marble.
Dominic’s eyes snapped toward her reflection.
They were cold and empty, the eyes of a predator registering movement.
Nora did not freeze.
Freezing was what prey did.
She kept her posture neutral and concentrated on his collar, ignoring the lethal weight of his attention.
She closed the distance between them.
“Your tie, sir,” she said without inflection.
He did not grant permission, but he did not step away.
That was enough.
Nora raised her hands.
The silk was cool beneath her rough fingertips.
She moved the knot precisely into the center of his throat, and the backs of her knuckles touched his skin.
He was burning.
Feverish heat radiated from his neck.
She smelled the clean citrus of his cologne. Beneath it was the acrid bitterness of old coffee and unrestrained stress.
He was a man holding a collapsing empire together with his bare hands.
As Nora smoothed his lapels, her eyes moved past his shoulder.
Through the reinforced glass of the front doors, she could see the circular driveway.
The armored black sedan was idling. Small clouds of white exhaust vanished into the cold morning air.
Arthur, the morning driver, stood beside the rear passenger door.
Nora had served him coffee many times.
He was a thickly built man who normally leaned against the fender, scrolling through his telephone with bored indifference.
That morning, Arthur was not leaning.
He stood rigidly upright.
His left hand was completely hidden behind his back.
It was the right side of his body that captured Nora’s attention.
His suit jacket hung incorrectly.
It did not drape. A bulge pulled the fabric tightly across his ribs, and the weight dragged the hem downward.
It was the unmistakable outline of a suppressed firearm inside a shoulder holster. The weapon sat higher and appeared bulkier than the standard sidearms carried by the estate guards.
Arthur was also sweating.
A thin layer of moisture reflected the sunlight across his forehead.
It was 40° outside.
His eyes repeatedly moved toward the front door.
He was not scanning the perimeter or waiting for his employer.
He was watching the glass.
Waiting for a target.
Nora’s hands remained on Dominic’s chest.
Her heart struck violently against her ribs.
If Dominic walked outside, Arthur would draw the gun.
There would be shouting, blood, and retaliation.
The estate would enter lockdown. No one would leave, and no one would be paid.
The fragile and quiet life Nora had constructed inside the shadows of the criminal organization would collapse.
She did not care about Dominic Rossi.
She cared about the Friday envelope.
She cared about routine.
Nora kept her expression completely blank.
She gave the silk tie 1 final and decisive adjustment.
Then she leaned forward by a fraction, her mouth near the lapel of Dominic’s suit.
“Your driver has a gun,” she whispered, barely audible over the grandfather clock ticking inside the hall. “Don’t get in the car.”
Dominic did not react.
That was the most frightening part.
A normal man would have jerked backward, looked through the doors, gasped, or demanded an explanation.
Dominic did nothing.
His breathing did not change.
His eyes remained fixed on Nora’s pale face without widening.
The coldness in his gaze seemed to deepen.
For 2 agonizing seconds, the foyer’s silence pressed against Nora’s ears.
Her hands still rested lightly against his chest.
She felt the calm and steady movement of his heart.
Then Dominic raised his hand.
His fingers closed around Nora’s wrist.
The grip was a steel vise, completely disproportionate to the elegance of his appearance. Pressure came immediately, grinding the delicate bones together.
A sharp gasp escaped her.
“You missed a spot,” Dominic said.
His low voice was pitched for ordinary conversation. It sounded casual and bored.
He did not look at the doors or Arthur.
Dominic pivoted smoothly and used his grip on her wrist to pull Nora with him.
He dragged her away from the glass and toward the interior of the estate, positioning her body between himself and the outside world.
A human shield.
The realization struck Nora with a wave of nausea.
If Arthur panicked and fired through the doors, the bullets would enter her spine first.
“Sir, my arm,” she said through clenched teeth.
She stumbled over the hem of her uniform skirt while trying to match Dominic’s long, unhurried strides.
“Quiet.”
The word carried the finality of a guillotine.
He pulled Nora past the dining room and toward the floor-to-ceiling oak doors of his private study.
She was permitted to clean that room only on Tuesdays and under a guard’s supervision.
It was Thursday.
Dominic opened the doors, pulled Nora inside, and kicked them closed.
The reinforced lock engaged with the sound of a vault sealing.
The study was dark and smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and faint cigar smoke. Heavy velvet drapes covered the windows.
The moment the lock engaged, Dominic’s facade disappeared.
He released Nora’s wrist.
She moved backward, rubbing the red marks already forming across her skin while her breath came in short, hard movements.
Dominic was already in motion.
The exhaustion was gone, replaced by kinetic violence.
He crossed the room in 3 steps and reached beneath the mahogany desk.
Metal scraped.
A slide moved with a heavy, oily clack.
When Dominic straightened, he held a black handgun.
He did not aim it at Nora. The barrel remained angled toward the Persian rug, but his body was coiled and ready.
