A Word on Judges and Jackasses–But I Repeat Myself

By a Humble Chronicler of Political and Societal follies while scribblin’ in the margins of modern America

Now, I ain’t one to go around insultin’ folks outright — but there’s a peculiar and persistent sickness creepin’ through the grand halls of our federal judiciary, and pardon the expression, it smells suspiciously like self-importance, fermented in a cask of bureaucratic boloney and served with a dash of sanctimony.

Let us look no further than the silver-shined bench of the Honorable–at least in the title–Judge Gloria Navarro, who — in her wisdom loftier than Mount Olympus and twice as cold — decided that a gentleman by the name of Adrian Arturo Viloria Aviles, 29, of Venezuela, deserved a reprieve from deportation. Why? Well, Your Honor wasn’t satisfied with sendin’ him off without a parade and a monogrammed invitation to the asylum line.

Now, this Mr. Viloria Aviles — he was plucked from the Utah roadside like a weed by Immigration agents, who say he’s a member of that cheery little outfit known as Tren de Aragua, a gang more fond of violence than a cat is of mischief. The man says he’s no such thing, and he’s got tattoos to prove otherwise — although one’s a dragon, which seems about as helpful to his case as a skunk is to a perfume contest.

The Trump administration, not one to tarry when the opportunity arises to pack a criminal’s suitcase, reached for the Alien Enemies Act — a relic of war and worry not often pulled from the shelf. That law, dusty and draped in martial solemnity, allows the swift removal of certain foreigners in the event of wartime danger. Venezuela ain’t invaded us — not yet anyway — but Uncle Sam felt the occasion still warranted a good spring cleaning.

But Judge Navarro, perhaps eager to remind us all who sits behind the black robe and gavel, slammed the brakes on that train, declaring that Mr. Aviles must get the luxury of due process, paperwork, and all the ceremonial folderol of the American legal machine. Why, he was bounced like a ping-pong ball between detention centers in Nevada, New Mexico, and Texas faster than you can say habeas corpus, and Judge Navarro seemed mighty cross about that.

Now, I don’t suppose judges are entirely unnecessary. Some of ’em serve like good watchdogs — loyal, alert, and with just enough bark to scare off the mischief-makers. Sometimes, a courthouse canine starts barkin’ at the postman and lettin’ the burglars in for tea. Judge Navarro’s order to halt deportation, prompted by a few civil libertarians and the ever-compassionate ACLU, falls into this category.

And what of due process, you ask? Well, it is a noble idea. So is a gold-plated outhouse–but one ought to ask if it’s necessary for every tramp with a tattoo and a tale of woe to receive the full brass band of American justice. ‘Specially when the only evidence he ain’t dangerous is his say-so and the inability of the government to explain itself–which is, regrettably, a chronic ailment in federal offices.

Meanwhile, in Lovelock, Nevada, the same government had no problem deportin’ one Federico Garcia-Cegueda, a Mexican feller convicted of murder and sexual assault, which sounds like exactly the kind of individual we should be fast-tracking to the nearest border crossing. But that case didn’t require a judge’s high horse or the rhetorical somersaults of the ACLU–no, sir–he was out the door with less ceremony than a telegraph operator on payday.

So here’s the rub–if we can’t deport gang members without a federal judge climbin’ up on a soapbox to mis-recite the Bill of Rights like it’s bedtime in kindergarten, then perhaps we ought to rethink who’s wearin’ the robe and who’s runnin’ the circus. For my part, I’d like to remind Their Honors that laws ain’t made for judges to admire like a peacock preenin’ in the mirror. They’re to protect the people who follow them–and that means keepin’ the criminals out, even when they wear tattoos shaped like birds and dragons and swear up and down they’re as innocent as lambs in spring.

So to Judge Navarro and all her robed brethren–kindly climb down from the ivory pedestal, wipe the ink from your spectacles, and remember that the good people of this Republic expect justice, not indulgence.