✏️ Legal Pad
Brick by Brick
This week, as the UN General Assembly met in New York, the Trump administration was reportedly finishing sanctions against the International Criminal Court. Not its judges this time. The whole court. According to the Wall Street Journal, the plan would bar most transactions with the ICC after a six or seven month grace period, which in practice cuts it off from the U.S. dollar. Secretary Rubio promised in July to take the court apart "brick by brick." This is the wrecking ball.
It also means a whole lot of people spent the week very upset about an institution they learned existed twenty minutes ago. So, briefly: the ICC sits in The Hague, was created by a 1998 treaty called the Rome Statute, and prosecutes individuals (not countries) for genocide, war crimes, and crimes against humanity. About 125 countries belong. The United States never has. Congress instead passed the American Service-Members' Protection Act, 22 U.S.C. § 7421 et seq., authorizing "all means necessary and appropriate" to free any American the court detains. Its nickname on Capitol Hill is the Hague Invasion Act. That's not a joke. It's a statute.
The court has no police force; it only works when member states arrest the people it charges. Its warrants for Vladimir Putin in 2023 and Benjamin Netanyahu in 2024 are how we got here. The Putin warrant was popular in Washington; then-Senator Rubio co-sponsored a resolution urging the court to go after Russia, a nonmember like the United States and Israel. The Netanyahu warrant was not. In February 2025 the President signed Executive Order 14203, declared the court a national emergency, and sanctioned its prosecutor. The list has since grown to nine of the eighteen judges.
Here's the part that matters on this side of the Atlantic. The sanctions run under the International Emergency Economic Powers Act, and it makes it a crime for any "U.S. person" to provide services to a sanctioned party. Up to twenty years. Two federal judges have already held that applying that to American lawyers and professors who write briefs or teach for the court violates the First Amendment. Rona v. Trump, No. 1:25-cv-03114 (S.D.N.Y. July 30, 2025); Smith v. Trump, No. 1:25-cv-00158 (D. Me. July 18, 2025).
Closer to Home: If the new sanctions land as described, a Greenville lawyer who returns a call from an ICC investigator, or a Clemson professor who consults on a case, sits in the same legal spot as someone wiring money to Hezbollah. Whatever you think of the court, that's a strange place to put a lawyer, and the answer will come from a federal judge in Manhattan, not The Hague.
💡 Sidebar
Lawyer Trick No. 67: Make Them Chug Water
Every deposition starts the same way: a paper cup of water in front of the witness that nobody asked for. For the first hour, nobody touches it. The tell is the cup. When a witness reaches for the water between questions, he isn't thirsty. He's buying four seconds to think. And it accelerates. A sip at the hard question, then a sip at every question, then a gulp, and by the afternoon the man is drinking like he just finished a half marathon. You can hear the cup getting lighter.
That's when you have options. My favorite is to stop, look concerned, and ask, "Do you need a refill?" Better still, let him know he's welcome to take a "comfort break" any time he needs one, in the voice you'd use with a toddler. Nothing in the Rules of Civil Procedure prohibits kindness. But now he knows you know, and every sip for the rest of the day is an admission. Mental terrorism one sip at a time.
⚖️ Closing Arguments
A Dump Truck of Gourds
It's officially fall, which in our neighborhood means the porches got decorated overnight, as if by elves. Gourd elves. On September 21 there's a welcome mat. On September 22 there's a dump truck of heirloom pumpkins artfully arranged around a hay bale, a cornucopia of gourds, something called a mum, and a wooden sign that says GATHER. I have found the source of all this: white women.
Gather for what? What did we harvest? The only thing I've ever harvested in my life is a beer from the fridge, and I didn't put it on the porch.
But fine. I'll play. If we're going to decorate for what the season is actually about, let's be consistent. Summer: a pyramid of melted popsicle boxes and a pile of wet swim trunks by the front door, with a tasteful sunscreen accent. Winter: every space heater in the house, arranged around the electric bill. Spring: a decorative layer of pollen (already provided), a wheel barrow of allergy medicine, and a sign that says SNEEZE. Football season: a wreath of empty koozies and the same GATHER sign, except now it means something. Happy fall, everybody. If you need me, I'll be on the porch, harvesting.
Court is in recess- see you next Friday.
