THE PRIVATE STASH
The rain doesn’t wash the grime off the streets of D.C. or the stink off of Lindsey Halligan. It just makes the slick spots slicker. And on Monday, the slickest play in town hit a wall of federal brick.
They brought in a cleaner. That’s how it usually works in this town. When the regulars—the career types with the pension plans and the framed degrees—won’t pull the trigger, you bring in an outsider. Someone hungry. Someone loyal.
Enter Lindsey Halligan.
Trump’s handpicked crusader. A personal lawyer with a resume that screams “insurance defense” louder than “federal prosecutor.” She walked into the Eastern District of Virginia like she had squatter’s rights, dropping into the seat Siebert left behind—still warm, still holding the shape of a man who knew when to fold before the house burns down. Siebert, the guy they squeezed out because he looked at the case against James Comey and Letitia James and saw what it was: a handful of nothing wrapped in a vengeance bow.
Siebert walked. He knew the score. You don’t bring a case without the goods, not unless you’re looking to get laughed out of court. But the boss wanted heads on pikes, and Halligan was ready to serve them up.
She went for the big fish. Comey, the old G-man, the guy who’s been haunting the former president’s dreams since 2017. And Letitia James, the heavy hitter from New York who dared to peek at the books. Halligan slapped indictments on them like they were parking tickets. Obstruction. Fraud. The works.
It was supposed to be a show trial. The “retribution” we kept hearing about whispered in the back alleys of the campaign trail.
But here’s the thing about the law—sometimes, it’s not about who you know. It’s about the fine print.
Judge Cameron McGowan Currie studied Halligan’s credentials like they were a kid’s sheriff badge from the five-and-dime—bright, shiny, useless. “Unlawfully appointed,” she ruled, which is courtroom code for: your authority isn’t worth the paper it was doodled on. A nice way of saying you can’t just deputize your pal to be the U.S. Attorney because the real prosecutors have consciences.
The whole operation came apart at the seams—threads popping, fabric sagging—like a bargain-bin suit caught in a downpour, bleeding dye onto the sidewalk while the city watched and pretended not to laugh. The judge tossed the cases. Comey walks. James walks. The statute of limitations on Comey’s case? Dead and buried back in September. They can’t bring it back without a necromancer.
It was a botched hit, plain and simple. Amateur hour at the DOJ.
Halligan tried to play the heavy without learning the lines. She went into the grand jury room alone—career prosecutors nowhere to be found—and sold a story the law wouldn’t buy. Now the White House is scrambling, talking about appeals and “partisan judges,” the usual noise to cover the sound of a door slamming shut.
The charges are gone, dismissed without prejudice, they say. That means they could try again. But don’t bet your last dime on it. The clock has run out on Comey, and the case against James looks flimsier than a wet newspaper.
In this town, power is everything. But on Monday, a judge in Virginia reminded everyone that even kings have to follow the rules of the road.
The rain is still falling. The streets are still slick. But for tonight, at least two targets slipped out of the crosshairs.
Jack Hammer, signing off.
