Supreme Court Justices Jackson and Kavanaugh clash over handling of Trump cases
Supreme Court Justices Kentanji Brown Jackson, left, and Brett Kavanaugh.AP; Getty Images
WASHINGTON — Internal Supreme Court divisions over how the high court has frequently ruled in favor of the Trump administration in emergency situations spilled out into public Monday with liberal Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson and conservative Justice Brett Kavanaugh locking horns.
The court's conservative majority has on a regular basis blocked lower court rulings that have stymied President Donald Trump's agenda, sparking criticism from within and outside the judiciary.
Jackson, often a vocal dissenter in those cases, forcefully aired her critique of the court's actions in a rare public appearance with Kavanaugh at an event for lawyers and judges held at the federal courthouse in Washington.
Bemoaning the recent increase in such emergency filings — requested to challenge lower court rulings — she suggested that the number of filings would drop if the court were stingier about granting them.
The procedure has become known as the “shadow docket” because the court rarely hears arguments and often issues terse decisions with little explanation. The Supreme Court decisions can allow policies to go into effect at early stages in legal challenges, long before lower courts have reached any definitive conclusions. The cases might then return to the Supreme Court later in the process, leading to final decisions on the merits.
In the last year, the court has, among other things, allowed Trump to fire thousands of federal workers, assert control over previously independent federal agencies and implement various aspects of his hard-line immigration policy. All those moves, done through the shadow docket, had been blocked by lower courts.
"I just feel like this uptick in the court's willingness to get involved ... is a real unfortunate problem," Jackson said. Among other things, it affects how lower court judges approach cases, as they already have a preliminary sense of how the Supreme Court might approach them on appeal, creating "a warped kind of proceeding," she added.
Jackson and Kavanaugh during introductions at the beginning of Monday's event.Lawrence Hurley / NBC News
"It's not serving the court or this country well," Jackson said.
Kavanaugh, usually in the majority in shadow docket cases, defended the court — as he has done in the past — saying it has to act one way or another when the government or another litigant files an emergency application.
Kavanaugh noted that the increase in government applications is not unique to Trump, saying the court also granted similar requests made by the Biden administration, albeit at a lower rate.
The reason successive administrations have rushed to the Supreme Court is that presidents have relied more on executive orders in recent years because of the difficulty of persuading Congress to enact legislation, and those actions are often challenged in court, he said.
The justices have aired their disagreements in written opinions, but this was a rare example of two justices entering into a public debate about internal court business.
"None of us enjoy this," Kavanaugh said of the shadow docket trend, noting that the court has opted in some cases to hear oral arguments and issue longer written rulings in response to some of the criticism.
"We have to have the same position regardless of who is president," he added, a statement that Jackson expressed agreement with.
Responding to questions posed by Washington-based Senior U.S. District Judge Paul Friedman, the justices were otherwise mostly on the same page during the hourlong event.
In particular, they both expressed concern about the increase in violent threats against judges. Recently, judges who have ruled against Trump have been regular targets.
"There's no easy answer, for sure," Jackson said. "It's unfortunate because it relates to a lack of understanding about judicial independence."
Kavanaugh praised Chief Justice John Roberts, who he said had "picked his spots" to push back against the criticism.
Roberts, for example, put out a statement rebuking Trump and his allies for suggesting judges should be impeached for ruling against the administration. One of the judges some Republicans want to impeach, Chief Judge James E. Boasberg of Washington, D.C., was among those at Monday's event.
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.
