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Tag: state prosecutor

  • Spotty redactions and public records reveal names of deputies in case against DA advisor

    Spotty redactions and public records reveal names of deputies in case against DA advisor

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    One deputy was convicted of driving drunk with a loaded gun in the car. Another was suspended for failing to promptly report an on-duty traffic accident. An experienced detective was accused of lying on his job application. And a commander was demoted to captain for turning a blind eye to a cheating scandal in a popular law enforcement relay race.

    For five months, California Atty. Gen. Rob Bonta’s office has fought to keep secret the names of eight Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputies at the center of the case against Diana Teran, a top district attorney’s office advisor accused of misusing confidential personnel records as part of an effort to track cops with disciplinary histories. She is now facing six felony charges under what legal experts say is a “novel” use of the state’s hacking statute.

    Courtroom testimony during a preliminary hearing last month showed that the allegedly confidential records in question were actually court records. But state prosecutors still fought to hide the deputies’ names and the details of their past behavior by redacting identifying portions of key documents in the case.

    After comparing gaps in the government’s redactions to hundreds of public civil suits, appeals and publicly posted disciplinary records, the Los Angeles Times and the Los Angeles Public Press identified seven of the deputies and tracked down court and public law enforcement records that shed light on the allegations against them and their efforts to overturn their punishments. In five of the seven cases the disciplinary actions were reduced or overturned.

    “This just shows how Attorney General Rob Bonta has wasted the time of several Los Angeles judges by asking them to keep these court records secret,” said Susan Seager, the UC Irvine law professor who has been fighting on behalf of the LA Public Press for the release of the deputies’ names since May. “Anyone can go to the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse today and find all the deputy lawsuits challenging their discipline and post them online. What happens in our public courts belongs to the public.”

    Bonta’s office has argued that releasing the deputies’ names would be a violation of state laws that keep police personnel records secret, as members of the public would then be able to connect the deputies’ names to their past conduct and discipline.

    A review of the deputies’ legal filings shows that at least half of the identified officers were disciplined for incidents involving an allegation of dishonesty. The punishments included everything from terminations to demotions to suspensions.

    None of the deputies agreed to speak on the record, though one said he had never been officially informed about the case. James Spertus, the attorney representing Teran, said the news organizations’ efforts called into question the state’s theory of the case.

    “The fact the court orders at issue in Ms. Teran’s case were located independently by the LA Times and the LA Public Press establishes the arguments that we have been trying to make since the case was first filed,” he said Monday. “She does not need ‘permission’ to ‘use’ public court orders.”

    The California Department of Justice did not immediately offer comment.

    In a statement, Steve Johnson, the president of the Los Angeles County Professional Peace Officers Association, vehemently disagreed with release of personnel information which he described as “stolen,” even though they were court records, and said that it would endanger deputies, families and peace officers who serve the community.

    *****

    The allegations at the center of the case against Teran date to 2018, when she worked as a constitutional policing advisor for then-Sheriff Jim McDonnell. Her usual duties included accessing confidential deputy records and internal affairs investigations.

    A few years after leaving the Sheriff’s Department, Teran joined the district attorney’s office. While there, in April 2021, she sent 33 names and a few dozen related court records to a subordinate to evaluate for possible inclusion in either of two internal databases prosecutors use to track officers with histories of dishonesty and other misconduct.

    One is known as the Brady database — a reference to the 1963 U.S. Supreme Court decision Brady vs. Maryland, which says prosecutors are required to turn over any evidence favorable to a defendant, including evidence of police misconduct.

    According to a 2021 Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office manual, material relating to dishonesty, assaults, racial bias and acts of moral turpitude can all be relevant Brady material. Under office policy, prosecutors are required to turn over any material that could call into question the officer’s credibility — even if they believe that information might be false.

    The state Department of Justice alleged several of the names Teran sent to her subordinate to consider including in D.A. databases were those of deputies whose files she had accessed while working at the Sheriff’s Department years earlier.

    However, testimony during the preliminary hearing last month showed she did not download the information from the LASD personnel file system. In most cases she learned of the alleged misconduct when co-workers emailed her copies of court records from lawsuits filed by deputies hoping to overturn the department’s discipline against them.

    But after searching news articles and public records requests, state investigators said they found that 11 of the names hadn’t been mentioned in public records or major media outlets. Thus, prosecutors said Teran wouldn’t have been able to identify the deputies, or know to look for their court records, were it not for her special access while working at the Sheriff’s Department.

    At first, prosecutors charged Teran with 11 felonies under state hacking statutes — but they refused to release the names of the deputies or details of their misconduct, making it difficult for reporters or members of the public to fully understand the allegations at the center of the case.

    After the Los Angeles Public Press fought in court for more information, in June the state released two of the names. Both deputies — whose records were easily discoverable through a Google search — had been fired for incidents involving dishonesty or false statements.

    Without explanation, prosecutors later dropped the two counts against Teran involving those deputies, as well as a third count. According to what Spertus previously told The Times, the alleged victim described in the third count — identified as Deputy Doe 11 in court records — was a civilian employee and not a deputy.

    Last month, L.A. Superior Court Judge Sam Ohta tossed out two more of the counts against Teran following a four-day preliminary hearing at which he determined there was enough evidence to move forward to trial on the six remaining counts.

    At the same time, in response to motions filed by lawyers for The Times and LA Public Press, Ohta ordered the release of unredacted exhibits that would identify most of the deputies. But he held the release of that information for three weeks to give the state time to file for appellate relief — which it did, arguing in a petition that the deputies’ “disciplinary matters here do not implicate any Brady obligations and/or were determined to be unfounded by the superior court in the litigation of those matters.”

    The court of appeals denied the request.

    But the redacted documents already made public contain distinctive notes and markings, as well as identifying dates and apparent redaction oversights, which make it possible to match them to public court records containing the deputies’ names.

    On one exhibit, state prosecutors left public the department identification numbers corresponding to Deputy Does 7, 8 and 9. On another, they left public a connected civil case number. In at least four cases, handwritten margin notes and signatures made it possible to match redacted exhibits to the public versions of the same documents already in L.A. Superior Court records.

    To narrow down which court records to scour for matching pages, reporters created a database of disciplinary files already made public by the Sheriff’s Department then searched those records for a series of dates referenced in an affidavit the state filed in June to justify the charges.

    Of the seven deputies identified through those methods, at least two had legal appeals easily discoverable through a Google search. One had been demoted as part of an incident covered in 2013 both by The Times and by the news blog Witness LA.

    Then-commander Patrick Jordan was knocked down to captain after a cheating scandal at the 2012 Baker to Vegas Challenge Cup Relay race, a 120-mile foot race that draws teams of law enforcement officers from around the world.

    A team representing the Sheriff’s Department swapped out a deputy for an ineligible runner who was not a department employee. Though court records indicate Jordan didn’t learn about the switch until the morning after the race, he was later demoted because he failed to report it. He appealed unsuccessfully to the Los Angeles County Civil Service Commission, which upheld his discipline.

    In 2016, a judge denied Jordan’s final attempt to reverse the disciplinary action. One of the documents in his civil case matches an exhibit in the Teran case, including a handwritten mark in the margin and a description of the discipline imposed. His employee identification number matches the one listed in another exhibit. Jordan could not be reached for comment Monday.

    Another case involved a deputy working in Court Services. In 2009, Gerald Jackson used force on an incarcerated person who allegedly assaulted him and a fellow deputy, according to records from the lawsuit Jackson filed to overturn his discipline.

    A civil lawsuit filed by the incarcerated person — which was ultimately dismissed — alleged that Jackson struck the jailed man’s eye repeatedly with a container, and beat and pepper sprayed him after a verbal altercation.

    Jackson was investigated and eventually discharged in 2012, but court records show a judge reversed the decision two years later, when Jackson argued that the Sheriff’s Department had missed the deadline to impose discipline on him. A review of his court records showed that one document matches an exhibit in the Teran case, including a reference to the case number of another deputy who was involved in the same incident.

    Most of the cases involved deputies who entered their own disciplinary histories into court records when they filed suit. But in one case Sheriff’s Department officials brought the matter into the public record when they sued to challenge a decision by the Civil Service Commission to reduce a deputy’s discipline from discharge to a 15-day suspension.

    Andrew Serrata, a former police officer from the defunct Maywood Police Department, was hired by the Sheriff’s Department in 2011 and later fired when the department realized that Serrata had incorrectly answered questions on his application related to his legal history, liabilities and debt.

    Serrata had successfully been sued by an ex-girlfriend, had his wages garnished for several months, and still owed money — all of which he failed to disclose properly on his job application, according to a 2013 letter the department sent notifying him of its disciplinary decision.

    Serrata — whose employee number matched one listed as a Deputy Doe in the Teran case — later appealed his discharge to the Civil Service Commission. The Sheriff’s Department pushed back, vigorously petitioning the court to overturn that decision and writing that Serrata’s claims were “simply, inherently unbelievable, and inexplicable for one filling out a form which warns that dismissal would result from misstatements.”

    Ultimately, a judge sided with Serrata and the commission, and he kept his job until he retired in 2021. When reached by phone Monday, he declined to comment for this story.

    The other deputies reporters identified faced discipline for allegations ranging from criminal convictions to crashes, according to records from the civil lawsuits they filed to challenge their punishments.

    David Carbajal damaged his patrol vehicle and failed to promptly notify his supervisor about the damage or fill out the required forms to report the situation, resulting in a 10-day suspension.

    Rachel Levy got into an altercation with a driver and used profanity after already being relieved of duty stemming from a separate incident. She was fired but ultimately successfully appealed her discipline to a 30-day suspension.

    Salvatore Guerrero was discharged after a complaint stemming from a call for service in which a woman accused him of inappropriate behavior, including returning to the residence while off-duty. A judge ultimately ruled that the evidence did not support the allegations.

    Jordan Kennedy pleaded guilty in Orange County Superior Court to driving drunk with a loaded duty weapon in his car. He was notified of the planned punishment — a 20-day suspension — while he was deployed overseas with the military. When he returned, he said he’d never been properly notified of the disciplinary decision, and a judge eventually ordered the department to overturn it.

    They could not be reached for comment, or did not respond.

    Jonathan Abel, an expert on Brady material and associate professor at UC Law San Francisco, reviewed court records from the seven deputies’ cases reporters identified.

    “There is nothing untoward about investigating these types of things,” he said, explaining that although dishonesty is the “core” of Brady material, past convictions could be a sign of “moral turpitude.” And sometimes uses of force can be relevant, as in cases in which a defendant accused of assaulting an officer aims to show the officer had a pattern of using excessive force.

    “To build that [Brady] list, you would have to sink a few dry wells,” he continued, explaining the need to evaluate material that might ultimately be irrelevant. “How can you know whether something’s Brady or not until you’ve read the documents?”

    A family member of one Deputy Doe — who asked to remain anonymous to avoid negatively affecting the deputy’s current job — said she’d been following the Teran case, even before the Sheriff’s Department reached out to alert the deputy to it several weeks after the matter became public. By that point, state prosecutors had already released two of the deputies’ names.

    “It almost feels like they keep getting punished over and over,” she said.

    This article was published in partnership with Los Angeles Public Press, a nonprofit news organization for the residents of Los Angeles County. Subscribe to its newsletter, and follow it on Instagram, X/Twitter, and Threads.

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    Keri Blakinger, Emily Elena Dugdale

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  • ‘Kind of bunk’: A closer look at the controversial case against a top L.A. D.A. official

    ‘Kind of bunk’: A closer look at the controversial case against a top L.A. D.A. official

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    One legal expert called it “kind of bunk.” Another said it simply raises more questions than it answers.

    But two months after state prosecutors announced 11 felony charges against a top advisor to Los Angeles County Dist. Atty. George Gascón, a newly unsealed court record offers a window into the controversial case.

    The basis for the allegations against Gascón advisor Diana Teran had remained opaque since California Atty. Gen. Rob Bonta announced them in April.

    State prosecutors have said only that Teran improperly accessed confidential police records while working as the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department’s constitutional policing advisor in 2018, then improperly used data from those records when she joined the district attorney’s office three years later.

    It’s been unclear whose files she’d allegedly used or how, but after weeks of legal wrangling, an attorney for the Los Angeles Public Press convinced a judge to unseal the affidavit used to justify the arrest warrant.

    The 15-page document, unsealed late Tuesday, shows the core allegations are focused on Teran’s efforts to include more deputies’ names in district attorney’s databases used to track problem officers, much as her attorney had previously speculated.

    But the document also shows that records of disciplinary against at least two of the 11 deputies were already public when she flagged them for inclusion. This week, The Times found the records were easily located through a Google search.

    The identities of the nine other deputies were still redacted in the public version of the affidavit — though Teran’s lawyer said he was “99% confident” their records were already public as well.

    “I can’t believe a case would be filed on this type of evidence,” James Spertus told The Times. “I understated before how bad this case was.”

    On Wednesday, several legal experts who reviewed the affidavit raised questions about the case.

    “It strikes me as we’ve lost the forest for the trees from a broader criminal justice point of view,” said Hanni Fakhoury, a San Francisco attorney with a background in computer crimes. “It’s not like she’s putting people on the database who shouldn’t be there.”

    In an emailed statement, Bonta’s office declined to comment, citing the need to “protect the integrity” of a pending case.

    One law enforcement source familiar with the matter — who requested anonymity because they were not authorized to speak on the record — said the state is considering dropping two of the charges against Teran, and late Wednesday, Spertus confirmed that was his expectation as well.

    With months to go before the general election — in which Gascón is facing a serious challenger — some have taken the Teran prosecution as a political betrayal, because Bonta endorsed Gascón four years ago. But it’s unclear what, if any, impact the controversy will have on the race.

    The district attorney’s office and the Sheriff’s Department did not immediately offer comment.

    The 15-page affidavit signed by Special Agent Tony Baca of the state Department of Justice traces the investigation into Teran back to a traffic stop involving a different district attorney’s official three years ago.

    The affidavit doesn’t identify that official, but the details line up with the December 2021 arrest of Gascón’s chief of staff, Joseph Iniguez.

    As The Times previously reported, Azusa police pulled over Iniguez’s fiance after he allegedly made an illegal U-turn into a McDonald’s drive-through. Police said Iniguez tried to interfere with the stop, and arrested him on suspicion of public intoxication.

    The police union later alleged that Iniguez threatened to have the arresting officer’s name added to the district attorney’s so-called Brady List, which contains officers with problematic disciplinary histories. The name is a reference to a landmark 1963 U.S. Supreme Court decision that requires prosecutors to turn over any evidence favorable to a defendant — including evidence of police misconduct.

    Given the potential conflict of interest, the case against Iniguez was turned over to the California Department of Justice. But state prosecutors never pursued charges, and Iniguez eventually sued the Azusa Police Department in a case that was settled last year.

    According to Baca’s affidavit, the state’s investigation somehow led officials to Teran, who had responsibility for the district attorney’s Brady database. The Department of Justice has not offered further explanation.

    Spertus said previously he believed the investigation into his client was sparked by a complaint from former Sheriff Alex Villanueva, who said in 2019 he alerted the FBI and the state Department of Justice about a “massive data breach” involving Teran. At the time, neither agency agreed to take on the case.

    When Teran worked at the Sheriff’s Department under Villanueva’s predecessor, part of her usual duties included accessing confidential deputy records and internal affairs investigations. According to Baca’s affidavit, the department’s secret tracking software logged all of her searches starting in 2018.

    When she joined the district attorney’s office in 2021, Teran allegedly began suggesting the names of deputies who should be added to the Brady list — a practice two prosecutors told Baca was not usual. Then in April 2021, the affidavit says, Teran sent a list of 33 names to another prosecutor for possible inclusion in the databases.

    The affidavit says that several of those names were deputies whose files she’d accessed while working at the Sheriff’s Department, and that she “would not have identified so many of these deputy sheriffs” otherwise. The affidavit also alleges that some of the documents Teran sent along with the names appeared to have been “scanned, copied, or taken directly from the LASD data files.”

    The 11 charges, Baca wrote, reflected the 11 of those 33 deputies whose names did “not appear in either public records request responses or media articles.”

    Susan Seager, the attorney who fought for the record’s release, questioned that reasoning.

    “This is a ridiculously narrow and inaccurate way of determining whether their disciplinary files are confidential,” she wrote in an emailed statement.

    Seager went on to call it “stunning” that Bonta would describe the 11 deputies’ records as confidential, pointing out that two names — Liza Gonzalez and Thomas Negron — were not redacted in the released affidavit.

    “Bonta’s office doesn’t explain why it unsealed those two names,” Seager wrote, “but perhaps that’s because there are two California court of appeal decisions dated 2014 and 2015 that discuss in great detail the disciplinary files of deputies Gonzalez and Negron and how they were fired for dishonesty in in 2010 and 2011, respectively.”

    Other legal experts who reviewed the affidavit were similarly critical.

    “I think it raises more questions than it answers — partly because there are still redactions,” said police oversight expert Michael Gennaco, adding it was “interesting” that the investigator who authored the affidavit didn’t appear to have done a case of this nature before.

    Cristine Soto DeBerry, executive director of the Prosecutors Alliance, panned the “absurdity” of the case.

    “A prosecutor earnestly trying to do her job and track important information should be applauded not punished,” she said in an emailed statement.

    Fakhoury, the attorney with a background in computer crimes, pointed out that state prosecutors don’t appear to be claiming that any of the information Teran flagged for inclusion in the Brady database was incorrect or didn’t belong there.

    “It also appears to me that there’s no allegation that she didn’t have computer access to the records at least when she was employed by the Sheriff’s Department,” he said. “So the unauthorized access is that she took the information she was allowed to have and used it after she left the Sheriff’s Department.”

    Fakhoury said federal prosecutors have tried to argue the theory that “unauthorized access” would include cases akin to Teran’s, in which someone accessed data for a permitted purpose and later used it for a different purpose. But the U.S. Supreme Court has rejected that theory, he said, and California’s Supreme Court has not weighed in on how broadly the state statute should be interpreted.

    “It’s an odd case,” he said. “I think it’s kind of bunk, frankly.”

    Legally, he said, it might not matter whether the records were already public —though that could raise larger questions about the decision to prosecute Teran.

    He wondered whether it might have a “chilling effect” on other prosecutors focused on police accountability: “Is this what we really want this kind of statute and this kind of investigation to go after?”

    Times staff writers James Queally and Richard Winton contributed to this report.

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    Keri Blakinger

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  • The Courtroom Is a Very Unhappy Place for Donald Trump

    The Courtroom Is a Very Unhappy Place for Donald Trump

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    No one wants to appear before a judge as a criminal defendant. But court is a particularly inhospitable place for Donald Trump, who conceptualizes the value of truth only in terms of whether it is convenient to him. His approach to the world is paradigmatic of what the late philosopher Harry Frankfurt defined as bullshit: Trump doesn’t merely obscure the truth through strategic lies, but rather speaks “without any regard for how things really are.” This is at odds with the nature of law, a system carefully designed to evaluate arguments on the basis of something other than because I say so. The bullshitter is fundamentally, as Frankfurt writes, “trying to get away with something”—while law establishes meaning and imposes consequence.

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    The upcoming trials of Trump—in Manhattan; Atlanta; South Florida; and Washington, D.C.—will not be the first time he encounters this dynamic. His claims of 2020 election fraud floundered before judges, resulting in a series of almost unmitigated losses. In one ruling that censured and fined a team of Trump-aligned lawyers who had pursued spurious fraud allegations, a federal judge in Michigan made the point bluntly. “While there are many arenas—including print, television, and social media—where protestations, conjecture, and speculation may be advanced,” she wrote, “such expressions are neither permitted nor welcomed in a court of law.”

    But only now is Trump himself appearing as a criminal defendant, stripped of the authority and protections of the presidency, before judges with the power to impose a prison sentence. The very first paragraph of the Georgia indictment marks this shift in power. Contrary to everything that Trump has tried so desperately to prove, the indictment asserts that “Trump lost the United States presidential election held on November 3, 2020”—and then actively sought to subvert it.

    Although Trump loves to file lawsuits against those who have supposedly wronged him, the courtroom has never been his home turf. Records from depositions over the years show him to be sullen and impatient while under oath, like a middle schooler stuck in detention. Timothy L. O’Brien, a journalist whom Trump unsuccessfully sued for libel in 2006, recalled in Bloomberg that his lawyers forced Trump to acknowledge that he had lied over the years about a range of topics. Trump has seemed similarly ill at ease during his arraignments. When the magistrate judge presiding over his arraignment in the January 6 case asked whether he understood that the conditions of his release required that he commit no more crimes, he assented almost in a whisper.

    All of this has been a cause for celebration among Trump’s opponents—because the charges against him are warranted and arguably overdue, but also for a different reason. The next year of American politics will be a twin drama unlike anything the nation has seen before, played out in the courtroom and on the campaign trail, often at the same time. Among Democrats, the potential interplay of these storylines has produced a profound hope: Judicial power, they anticipate, may scuttle Trump’s chances of retaking the presidency, and finally solve the political problem of Donald Trump once and for all.

    It has become conventional wisdom that nothing can hurt Trump’s standing in the polls. But his legal jeopardy could, in fact, have political consequences. At least some proportion of Republicans and independents are already paying attention to Trump’s courtroom travails, and reassessing their prior beliefs. A recent report by the political-science collaborative Bright Line Watch found that, following the Mar-a-Lago classified-documents indictment in June, the number of voters in each group who believed that Trump had committed a crime in his handling of classified information jumped by 10 percentage points or more (to 25 and 46 percent, respectively).

    And despite Trump’s effort to frame January 6 as an expression of mass discontent by the American people, the insurrection has never been popular: Extremist candidates who ran on a platform of election denial in the 2022 midterms performed remarkably poorly in swing states. Ongoing criminal proceedings that remind Americans again and again of Trump’s culpability for the insurrection—among his other alleged crimes—seem unlikely to boost his popularity with persuadable voters. If he appears diminished or uncertain in court, even the enthusiasm of the MAGA faithful might conceivably wane.

    Above all of this looms the possibility of a conviction before Election Day, which has no doubt inspired many Democratic fantasies. If Trump is found guilty of any of the crimes of which he now stands accused, a recent poll shows, almost half of Republicans say they would not cast their vote for him.

    But that outcome is only one possibility, and it does not appear to be the most likely.

    Americans who oppose Trump—and, more to the point, who wish he would disappear as a political force—have repeatedly sought saviors in legal institutions. The early Trump years saw the lionization of Special Counsel Robert Mueller as a white knight and (bewilderingly) a sex symbol. Later, public affection turned toward the unassuming civil servants who testified against Trump during his first impeachment, projecting an old-school devotion to the truth that contrasted with Trump’s gleeful cynicism. Today, Mueller’s successors—particularly Special Counsel Jack Smith and Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis, who is leading the Georgia prosecution—are the subjects of their own adoring memes and merchandise. One coffee mug available for purchase features Smith’s face and the text Somebody’s Gonna Get Jacked Up!

    Perhaps this time will be different. With Trump out of office, Smith hasn’t been limited, as Mueller was, by the Justice Department’s internal guidance prohibiting the indictment of a sitting chief executive. Willis, a state prosecutor, operates outside the federal government’s constraints. And neither Bill Barr nor Republican senators can stand between Trump and a jury.

    The indictments against Trump have unfolded in ascending order of moral and political importance. In April, the Manhattan district attorney, Alvin Bragg, announced charges for Trump’s alleged involvement in a hush-money scheme that began in advance of the 2016 election. In June came Smith’s indictment of Trump in Florida, over the ex-president’s hoarding of classified documents at Mar-a-Lago. Two months later, the special counsel unveiled charges against Trump for his attempts to overturn the 2020 election. Willis’s indictment in Georgia quickly followed, employing the state’s racketeering statute to allege a widespread scheme to subvert the vote in favor of Trump. (He has pleaded not guilty in the first three cases and, as of this writing, was awaiting arraignment in Georgia. The Trump campaign released a statement calling the latest indictment “bogus.”)

    But each case has its own set of complexities. The New York one is weighed down by a puzzling backstory—of charges considered, not pursued, and finally taken up after all—that leaves Bragg’s office open to accusations of a politically motivated prosecution. The indictment in Florida seems relatively open-and-shut as a factual matter, but difficult to prosecute because it involves classified documents not meant to be widely shared, along with a jury pool that is relatively sympathetic to Trump and a judge who has already contorted the law in Trump’s favor. In the January 6 case, based in Washington, D.C., the sheer singularity of the insurrection means that the legal theories marshaled by the special counsel’s office are untested. The sweeping scope of the Georgia indictment—which involves 19 defendants and 41 criminal counts—may lead to practical headaches and delays as the case proceeds.

    Trump’s army of lawyers will be ready to kick up dust and frustrate each prosecution. As of July, a political-action committee affiliated with Trump had spent about $40 million on legal fees to defend him and his allies. The strategy is clear: delay. Trump has promised to file a motion to move the January 6 proceedings out of Washington, worked regularly to stretch out ordinary deadlines in that case, and tried (unsuccessfully) to move the New York case from state to federal court. The longer Trump can draw out the proceedings, the more likely he is to make it through the Republican primaries and the general election without being dragged down by a conviction. At that point, a victorious Trump could simply wait until his inauguration, then demand that the Justice Department scrap the federal cases against him. Even if a conviction happens before Americans go to the polls, Trump is almost certain to appeal, hoping to strand any verdict in purgatory as voters decide whom to support.

    Currently, the court schedule is set to coincide with the 2024 Republican primaries. The Manhattan trial, for now, is scheduled to begin in March. In the Mar-a-Lago case, Judge Aileen Cannon has set a May trial date—though the proceedings will likely be pushed back. In the January 6 case, Smith has asked for a lightning-fast trial date just after New Year’s; in Georgia, Willis has requested a trial date in early March. But still, what little time is left before next November is rapidly slipping away. In all likelihood, voters will have to decide how to cast their ballot before the trials conclude.

    The pileup of four trials in multiple jurisdictions would be chaotic even if the defendant were not a skillful demagogue running for president. There’s no formal process through which judges and prosecutors can coordinate parallel trials, and that confusion could lead to scheduling mishaps and dueling prosecutorial strategies that risk undercutting one another. For instance, if a witness is granted immunity to testify against Trump in one case, then charged by a different prosecutor in another, their testimony in the first case might be used against them in the second, and so they might be reluctant to talk.

    In each of the jurisdictions, defendants are generally required to sit in court during trial, though judges might make exceptions. This entirely ordinary restriction will, to some, look politically motivated if Trump is not allowed to skip out for campaign rallies, though conversely, Trump’s absence might not sit well with jurors who themselves may wish to be elsewhere. All in all, it may be hard to shake the appearance of a traveling legal circus.

    Attacking the people responsible for holding him to account is one of Trump’s specialties. Throughout the course of their respective investigations, Trump has smeared Bragg (who is Black) as an “animal,” Willis (who is also Black) as “racist,” and Smith as “deranged.” Just days after the January 6 case was assigned to Judge Tanya Chutkan, Trump was already complaining on his social-media site, Truth Social, that “THERE IS NO WAY I CAN GET A FAIR TRIAL” with Chutkan presiding (in the January 6 cases she has handled, she has evinced little sympathy for the rioters). Anything that goes wrong for Trump during the proceedings seems destined to be the subject of a late-night Truth Social post or a wrathful digression from the rally stage.

    However damning the cases against Trump, they will matter to voters only if they hear accurate accounts of them from a trusted news source. Following each of Trump’s indictments to date, Fox News has run segment after segment on his persecution. A New York Times /Siena College poll released in July, after the first two indictments, found that zero percent of Trump’s loyal MAGA base—about 37 percent of Republicans—believes he committed serious federal crimes.

    And beyond the MAGA core? A recent CBS News poll showed that 59 percent of Americans and 83 percent of self-described non-MAGA Republicans believe the investigations and indictments against Trump are, at least in part, attempts to stop him politically. Trump and his surrogates will take every opportunity to stoke that belief, and the effect of those efforts must be balanced against the hits Trump will take from being on trial. Recent poll numbers show Trump running very close to President Joe Biden even after multiple indictments—a fairly astonishing achievement for someone who is credibly accused of attempting a coup against the government that he’s now campaigning to lead.

    The law can do a great deal. But the justice system is only one institution of many, and it can’t be fully separated from the broader ecosystem of cultural and political pathologies that brought the country to this situation in the first place.

    After Robert Mueller chose not to press for an indictment of Trump on obstruction charges, because of Justice Department guidance on presidential immunity, the liberal and center-right commentariat soured on the special counsel, declaring him to have failed. If some Americans now expect Fani Willis or Jack Smith to disappear the problem of Donald Trump—and the authoritarian movement he leads—they will very likely be disappointed once again. Which wouldn’t matter so much if serial disappointment in legal institutions—he just keeps getting away with it—didn’t encourage despair, cynicism, and nihilism. These are exactly the sentiments that autocrats hope to engender. They would be particularly dangerous attitudes during a second Trump term, when public outrage will be needed to galvanize civil servants to resist abuses of power—and they must be resisted.

    Trump’s trials are perhaps best seen as one part of a much larger legal landscape. The Justice Department’s prosecutions of rioters who attacked the Capitol on January 6 seem to have held extremist groups back from attempting other riots or acts of mass intimidation, even though Trump has called for protests as his indictments have rained down. Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel recently announced criminal charges alleging that more than a dozen Republicans acted as “fake electors” in an effort to steal the 2020 election for Trump—and as a result, would-be accomplices in Trump’s further plots may be less inclined to risk their own freedom to help the candidate out. Likewise, some of those lawyers who worked to overturn the 2020 vote have now been indicted in Georgia and face potential disbarment—which could cause other attorneys to hold back from future schemes.

    This is a vision of accountability as deterrence, achieved piece by piece. Even if Trump wins a second term, these efforts will complicate his drive for absolute authority. And no matter the political fallout, the criminal prosecutions of Trump are themselves inherently valuable. When Trump’s opponents declare that “no one is above the law,” they’re asserting a bedrock principle of American society, and the very act of doing so helps keep that principle alive.

    None of this settles what may happen on Election Day, of course, or in the days that follow. But nor would a conviction. If a majority of voters in a handful of swing states decide they want to elect a president convicted of serious state and federal crimes, the courts can’t prevent them from doing so.

    Such a result would lead to perhaps the most exaggerated disjunction yet between American law and politics: the matter of what to do with a felonious chief executive. If federal charges are the problem, Trump seems certain to try to grant himself a pardon—a move that would raise constitutional questions left unsettled since Watergate. In the case of state-level conviction, though, President Trump would have no such power. Could it be that he might end up serving his second term from a Georgia prison?

    The question isn’t absurd, and yet there’s no obvious answer to how that would work in practice. The best way of dealing with such a problem is as maddeningly, impossibly straightforward as it always has been: Don’t elect this man in the first place.


    This article appears in the October 2023 print edition with the headline “Trump on Trial.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

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