Justice Clarence Thomas was supposed to address a room full of lawyers and students at American University's law school this week. Instead, a security risk forced him to appear remotely from the Capitol Hill office of Senator Mike Lee, delivering his remarks to a screen instead of a crowd.
The closed-door session, part of a two-day conference sponsored by the J. Reuben Clark Law Society, became an unintended illustration of exactly the problem Thomas came to discuss: the erosion of civility in American public life and the growing threats that now shadow the Supreme Court.
"I apologize for having to change things, but I wanted to make sure I didn't endanger anyone by my mere presence."
That's a sitting Supreme Court justice, appointed in 1991, explaining why he couldn't walk into a law school. Thomas did not specify the nature of the security concern, and a spokeswoman for the Supreme Court did not respond to a request for comment. What is known: a group of about a dozen protesters, who appeared to be students, gathered outside the venue on Thursday afternoon. Whether that protest triggered the change remains unclear.
Thomas used his remote appearance to reflect on what the moment said about the country. He didn't grandstand. He didn't rage. He mourned.
"I think it says so much about where we are. That we are sitting here and the people we are speaking to are sitting there, when in a civil society, we would all be sitting in the same room, at the same table, even as we disagree."
That's not the language of a man spoiling for a fight. It's the language of someone who remembers when the institution worked differently. Thomas recalled that eight or nine justices used to have lunch together "almost every day," a detail that sounds almost quaint now. Between 1994 and 2005, the makeup of the bench did not change for eleven years. The justices built relationships because they had time and, more importantly, because the culture allowed it.
Thomas said plainly that "we have come a long way in the wrong direction."
According to The New York Times, all nine justices have operated under increased security since the 2022 leak of the court's draft decision to eliminate the nationwide right to abortion. Threats against judges have risen since then. This is the environment in which Thomas, now 77, continues to serve.
Student social media messages before the event asked, "Why is Clarence Thomas Speaking at AU?" It's a revealing question. Not "what will he say" or "how can we engage with his ideas," but why is he allowed to speak at all. The premise isn't disagreement. It's exclusion.
Matt Bennett, American University's vice president and chief communications officer, wrote in an email that the university was "prepared to prevent any potential disruption of the event, which is not allowed under our policies (and which didn't occur)." He added that the small group of demonstrators remained outside during the entire time. An official with the J. Reuben Clark Law Society noted that the remote format was "due to an agreement between our organization and Justice Thomas's team."
So the protest stayed outside. The disruption didn't happen. And the justice still couldn't be in the room.
Thomas didn't spend the session dwelling on threats. He spoke about the court's work and the principles he believes should guide it. On judicial opinions he considers overly personal or combative, he was direct:
"I don't like those kinds of opinions simply because it isn't about me. It isn't about my emotions. It isn't about my critique of your style."
"It is about my argument, trying to get it right, and where I disagree with you, trying to get it right, and I respect the fact that you are trying to live up to your oath, as I am trying to live up to mine."
This is a justice describing what legal disagreement is supposed to look like: substantive, respectful, focused on getting the law right rather than winning a news cycle. It stands in sharp contrast to the "sharp, lengthy dissents" that the court's three liberal justices have routinely issued in response to emergency orders allowing the administration to carry out policies while litigation proceeds.
Thomas also addressed race, noting that he was in the majority in 2023 when the court rejected race-conscious college admissions programs. He argued that judging people "negatively or better based on color" simply "doesn't work one way, and you've got to accept it both ways." The principle is straightforward. The resistance to it tells you everything about who actually believes in equality and who believes in hierarchy dressed up as justice.
Gene Schaerr, a former associate counsel to President George H.W. Bush who runs a conservative litigation firm and teaches at Brigham Young's J. Reuben Clark Law School, asked Thomas how he would celebrate the nation's 250th birthday. Thomas, who could surpass the 36-year record for longest-serving associate justice if he remains on the bench through spring 2028, shrugged it off in characteristic fashion:
"Well, I just get up every day and go to work. I don't do a lot of that counting stuff."
There is a particular irony in the fact that the people who claim to defend democratic norms and institutional legitimacy are the same ones who have made it physically unsafe for a Supreme Court justice to appear at a law school. The same political movement that lectures endlessly about "threats to democracy" has spent years demonizing individual justices whose rulings it dislikes, creating the precise climate of intimidation that Thomas described from a Senate office building because he couldn't be in the room.
The left's position on judicial legitimacy has always been conditional. The court is legitimate when it expands progressive priorities. It is a corrupt, illegitimate body the moment it applies the Constitution as written. Since the 2022 leak, this conditional respect has curdled into something more dangerous: a permission structure for harassment, protest, and threats aimed at justices who refuse to bend.
Thomas urged his audience not to "follow the example of the things that have happened that prevent us from being together." It was a gentle admonition, almost pastoral. He admitted to being "a bit too edgy" at times while being candid. But edgy opinions published in the U.S. Reports are not the same as mobs outside a law school.
A 77-year-old man who has served his country for over three decades on the highest court couldn't sit in a room with law students. Not because he was unwilling, but because the culture his opponents built made it unsafe. The empty chair at American University said more than any dissent ever could.