A Republic, If You Can Keep It

by Neil Gorsuch

  Now, I know you will respond: But I’m looking forward to having memories of law school fade away as quickly as possible! And fair enough. After all, some things are best forgotten. But don’t forget your friends. You will enjoy watching them, their families, and their careers unfold almost as much as your own.

  NUMBER 3: FIND A PASSION OUTSIDE THE LAW.

  We all hear the tales of the fantastic young lawyer who died of a heart attack at forty-four. He was super at what he did, but that’s all he did. No sports, no hobbies, just a grind. Beware.

  Now, I readily concede that hard work is inevitable in the profession you’ve chosen—especially if you want to be any good at it. He who works hardest often produces the best results. But at the same time, a life in the law doesn’t mean your life has to be the law. You will enjoy your profession (not to mention your life) much more if you also pursue a passion outside the law. You may even be a more successful lawyer for it. Clients and jurors, after all, are real people and they relate to real and balanced people. Whether it’s flying or fly-fishing, skiing or swimming, find something you love. If you already have a passion, don’t forget it in the first few years of practice. Keep at it. If you don’t have something you’re wild about yet, it’s hardly too late. But take up that new sport or activity now. Let me assure you, it doesn’t get easier with age.

  NUMBER 2: A DON’T.

  I’ve tried to focus on things you should consider doing—the “dos,” if you will—rather than dwell on the negative, the things you shouldn’t do. But let me mention just one here.

  Please don’t take yourself too seriously. Law school gives you many skills, but there are a lot of mighty smart people out there who didn’t go to this esteemed law school, or any law school at all. Some of the wiliest trial lawyers I know went to law schools you probably turned down, and I have learned as much or more from them as I ever did from those with fancier degrees. Many of the most creative, entrepreneurial clients I represented also never went to graduate school or even college. Some dropped out of high school. Just because they don’t speak our legal language doesn’t mean they are any less able or interesting. Far from it.

  NUMBER 1: FINALLY…

  And now, finally, the number one thing you should do during the first ten years after leaving law school: Remember why you came here in the first place.

  Did you come to law school to make money or make a difference? I suspect it was to make a real difference in your community and the world around you. Don’t forget that.

  One of the great things about the legal profession is the many ways in which you can use your knowledge to make such a large and positive public contribution. Lawyers have shaped this country since its founding. Almost half of the signers of the Declaration of Independence were lawyers. Of course, public service isn’t the road to riches or the sure path to celebrity. Those who put their names to the Declaration may be warmly remembered today, but in their own time many thought they were signing their own death warrant. The real value in service lies in the fact that, come what may, you will know that you’ve done your best with your time here, worrying not about satisfying your own needs and wants but working for a cause you recognize as something greater and more enduring than yourself. And public service is, I think you will find, the most rewarding thing you can do with your law degree. In my own life, I can tell you that 7:00 A.M. meetings at the Department of Justice were always easier for me to make than 10:00 A.M. depositions in private practice.

  Finally, please don’t forget to aim high. If you don’t tackle the issues facing our country today—its debts, its wars, its social, legal, and environmental problems—somebody else will. And the risk is that it will be somebody less capable. So please don’t worry only about making money and “check out” of civic society and our government. It is your republic—and up to you to keep it.

  7.

  FROM JUDGE TO JUSTICE

  As the process of my nomination and confirmation to the Supreme Court unfolded, it was an exercise in experiencing the unexpected. Every day brought a new surprise. Take the day when, shortly after my nomination, Louise got a voicemail from the milkman asking if, from now on, could he please make his deliveries during the daytime hours rather than follow his usual predawn schedule? Curious, Louise asked the marshals stationed outside our home if something had happened.

  “There was an incident, ma’am,” came the reply.

  Louise didn’t think much of it until she got a second voicemail. This one informed her that our familiar deliveryman would no longer bring the milk; someone else would now make the trip. Louise went back to the marshals and asked if by chance the “incident” with the milkman had been unpleasant.

  “He ended in the prone position, ma’am, yes.”

  On further inquiry it came out that in the wee hours, something like four in the morning, a van came barreling around the corner of our quiet country road in Colorado and slammed to a stop in front of our house. A man jumped out and ran toward the house carrying a large package that made a clanging sound. Uncertain who the man was, it seems the marshals tackled him. For the marshals’ diligence and care in protecting my family and all my judicial colleagues across the country, I am grateful every single day and beyond words. Still, the milkman was (understandably) shaken by the experience—and I’m not sure the apologies and chocolates Louise sent helped all that much.

  That story is pretty emblematic of the whole confirmation process. Outside observers would sometimes say, boy, it’s going smoothly. If they only knew! Former colleagues in private practice had to turn their law firm upside down to produce almost every document I had laid fingers on during my years there over a decade ago. A small army at the Department of Justice worked around the clock to find every email I had ever written during my tenure there years earlier. Neighbors and family members and old classmates were stopped outside their homes and questioned. Former clients were prodded for their opinions on my skills in everything from trying cases to skiing mogul runs. The priests at our church were cold-called by journalists who then showed up for services to talk with parishioners. My law school, college, high school, and (yes) grade school teachers were quizzed. So were parents at our kids’ schools.

  The amazing thing to me was how most people responded. I was embarrassed at the intrusion and inconvenience they had to endure. But instead of holding it against me, so many rallied to support my family. Some supported Louise when I was away in Washington meeting with senators. Others kept me company when I missed my family back West, made sure I had something to wear (I had left home without enough clothes), and helped fill out thick Senate questionnaires. Scores of friends and former colleagues volunteered to write their senators or testify at the hearing. Others made sure I was ready for the hearing, spending long evenings after work and over cold pizza preparing me. Former law students I had taught over the years and classmates from every period of my education stepped forward, volunteering to do whatever they could. An incredible number of friends and family flew in from distant parts of the country to support me before and during the hearings, all without being asked.

  My law clerks, especially, were there every step of the way. Law clerks are young men and women who assist a federal judge, usually for just one year after law school before launching their own careers. By the time they leave, they have become part of the family and I am so proud of all they go on to do—working in government and for nonprofits, as parents, and now even as judges. The hardest part of every year is watching them go. When my former clerks heard I might be nominated, they rallied round immediately. Some quit their jobs or chose to end their maternity leave early; others picked up and moved overnight to Washington just to help out. I couldn’t believe it. Many of these family, friends, and former clerks weren’t “conservative” or “originalists” either; far from it. They just wanted to be there for my family and me.

  In the middle of it all
, I remember sitting on a flight leaving Colorado for Washington. By then, the confirmation process was in full swing and I was feeling more than a little unmoored. I wound up seated next to a young girl who couldn’t have been more than six or so. She reminded me of my own daughters at that age. When the plane encountered some turbulence, the girl turned to me and asked if I wouldn’t mind if she held my hand. Later, as the flight smoothed, she asked if I would like to draw with her. We spent the rest of the flight drawing pictures and coloring with her crayons and markers. She had no idea who I was; it was lovely to be anonymous for a moment and to forget about everything else. Once we got off the plane, her mother, who it turned out had been seated nearby, figured out who I was and not long after that I received a thank-you note from the young lady. It was a drawing of her and me holding hands in front of an airplane.

  That experience turned out to be one of countless like it. After years of living happily anonymous as a lawyer and a judge, all of a sudden I found myself recognized nearly everywhere: in the airport, out jogging, even hiking in the Colorado mountains. It was unsettling at first; sometimes it still is. But with the loss of anonymity I came to learn I had received a gift in return I did not expect. Thousands of people stopped me or wrote to me during the confirmation process to wish me well. Some would come up to me and say: I didn’t vote for the president who nominated you but I’m praying for you and your family. Others would nudge me in line at a coffee shop and tell me a joke to brighten my day. I got a pile of care packages too. One included a note saying the sender noticed on television that my socks appeared worn out, so she included a bundle of new ones. These encounters reminded me again and again of the goodness that runs deep in our collective heritage and sustains our republic.

  This chapter collects some of the statements I made during and shortly after the nomination and confirmation process. In them, I tried to share the immense love of country I had witnessed from my friends, family, and countless others across America. I tried to explain my gratitude to the people and nation I am honored to serve. And I tried, too, to distill and explain some of the ideas I care about, and have written or spoken about over the years, as well as how I came to them—ideas about our Constitution, the separation of powers, the judge’s proper role, and some of the challenges we face today when it comes to civics and civility.

  THE EAST ROOM

  In the moments leading up to the announcement of my nomination, Louise and I met with the President. Secretly, each of us was a bit disappointed with the plans for the evening, which had her sitting in the audience rather than standing with me at the podium in the East Room. But as we waited for the designated time to arrive I could tell the President was thinking something over. And then without a word to us he directed a change in plans. Apparently, he could tell how much Louise meant to me. When it all started, there she was, standing next to me, as my nomination was announced. These are the words I spoke that evening.

  Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, you and your team have shown me great courtesy in this process, and you have entrusted me with a most solemn assignment. Standing here in a house of history, and acutely aware of my own imperfections, I pledge that if I am confirmed, I will do all my powers permit to be a faithful servant of the Constitution and laws of this great country.

  For the last decade, I’ve worked as a federal judge in a court that spans six western states, serving about 20 percent of the continental United States and about eighteen million people. The men and women I’ve worked with at every level in our circuit are an inspiration to me. I’ve watched them fearlessly tending to the rule of law, enforcing the promises of our Constitution and living out daily their judicial oaths to administer justice equally to rich and poor alike, following the law as they find it and without respect to their personal political beliefs. I think of them tonight.

  Of course, the Supreme Court’s work is vital not just to a region of the country, but to the whole, vital to the protection of the people’s liberties under law, and to the continuity of our Constitution—the greatest charter of human liberty the world has ever known.

  The towering judges that have served in this particular seat of the Supreme Court, including Antonin Scalia and Robert Jackson, are much in my mind at this moment. Justice Scalia was a lion of the law. Agree or disagree with him, all of his colleagues on the bench benefited from his wisdom and enjoyed his humor. And like them, I miss him.

  I began my legal career working for Byron White, the last Coloradan to serve on the Supreme Court—and the only justice to lead the NFL in rushing. He was one of the smartest and most courageous men I’ve ever known.

  When Justice White retired, he gave me the chance to work for Justice Kennedy as well. Justice Kennedy was incredibly welcoming and gracious, and like Justice White, he taught me so much. I am forever grateful. And if you’ve ever met Judge David Sentelle, you’ll know just how lucky I was to land a clerkship with him right out of school. Thank you. These judges brought me up in the law. Truly, I would not be here without them. Today is as much their day as it is mine.

  In the balance of my professional life, I’ve had the privilege of working as a practicing lawyer and teacher. I’ve enjoyed wonderful colleagues whose support means so much to me at this moment—as it has year in and year out.

  Practicing in the trial work trenches of the law, I saw, too, that when we judges don our robes, it doesn’t make us any smarter, but it does serve as a reminder of what’s expected of us: impartiality and independence, collegiality and courage.

  As this process now moves to the Senate, I look forward to speaking with members from both sides of the aisle, to answering their questions and to hearing their concerns. I consider the United States Senate the greatest deliberative body in the world, and I respect the important role the Constitution affords it in the confirmation of our judges.

  I respect, too, the fact that in our legal order, it is for Congress and not the courts to write new laws. It is the role of judges to apply, not alter, the work of the people’s representatives. A judge who likes every outcome he reaches is very likely a bad judge, stretching for results he prefers rather than those the law demands.

  I am so thankful tonight for my family, my friends, and my faith. These are the things that keep me grounded at life’s peaks and have sustained me in its valleys. To Louise, my incredible wife and companion of twenty years, my cherished daughters—who are watching on TV—and all my family and friends, I cannot thank you enough for your love and for your prayers. I could not attempt this without you.

  Mr. President, I am honored and I am humbled. Thank you very much.

  THE SENATE JUDICIARY COMMITTEE

  As I was drafting my opening statement to the Senate Judiciary Committee, the men and women who brought me to that point in my life loomed large in my mind. I wanted to acknowledge their influence. I also was aware that for some watching it would be the first time they’d hear a judge speak about what judges do. I hoped to share, however imperfectly, a glimpse into what the judicial life looks like and some of the ideas that I had written about as a judge, and that are now found in this book.

  Mr. Chairman, Senator Feinstein, Members of the Committee:

  I am honored and humbled to be here. Since coming to Washington, I have met with over seventy senators. You have offered a warm welcome and wise advice. Thank you. I also want to thank the President and Vice President. They and their teams have been very gracious to me and I thank them for this honor. I want to thank Senators Bennet and Gardner and General Katyal for their introductions. Reminding us that—long before we are Republicans or Democrats—we are Americans.

  Sitting here I am acutely aware of my own imperfections. But I pledge to each of you and to the American people that, if confirmed, I will do all my powers permit to be a faithful servant of the Constitution and laws of our great nation.

  I could not even attempt this without Louise, my wife
of more than twenty years. The sacrifices she has made and her giving heart leave me in awe. I love you so much. We started off in a place very different from this one: a small apartment and little to show for it. When Louise’s mother first came to visit, she was concerned by the conditions. As I headed out the door to work, I will never forget her whispering to her daughter, in a voice just loud enough for me to hear: Are you sure he’s really a lawyer?

  To my teenage daughters watching out West. Bathing chickens for the county fair. Devising ways to keep our determined pet goat out of the garden. Building a semi-functional plyboard hovercraft for science fair. Driving eight hours through a Wyoming snowstorm with high school debaters in the back arguing the whole way. These are just a few of my favorite memories. I love you impossibly.

  To my extended family across Colorado. When we gather, it’s dozens of us. We hold different political and religious views, but we are united in love. Between the family pranks and the pack of children running rampant, whoever is hosting is usually left with at least one drywall repair.

  To my parents and grandparents. They are no longer with us but there’s no question on whose shoulders I stand. My mom was one of the first women graduates of the University of Colorado Law School. As the first female assistant district attorney in Denver, she helped start a program to pursue deadbeat dads. And her idea of daycare sometimes meant I got to spend the day wandering the halls or tagging behind police officers. She taught me that headlines are fleeting—courage lasts.