Clinton-Appointed Judge Orders FBI to Destroy Evidence in Comey Case
A Clinton-appointed federal judge has ordered the FBI to destroy emails central to the obstruction and false statements case against former FBI Director James Comey, a decision that legal experts warn could cripple prosecutors’ ability to pursue a new indictment and set off a constitutional showdown over separation of powers.
U.S. District Judge Colleen Kollar-Kotelly, who sits on the D.C. District Court, issued the surprise order on December 13, directing the FBI to permanently delete all data seized from Columbia Law Professor Daniel Richman—Comey’s longtime friend and former government contractor—by 4 p.m. Monday.
The emails include key exchanges between Richman and Comey that prosecutors allege show Comey authorized leaks and false testimony about his role in Operation Crossfire Hurricane.
The ruling follows the September indictment of Comey on two counts—making false statements to Congress and obstruction of a congressional proceeding—related to his 2020 testimony about the FBI’s Trump-Russia investigation. Prosecutors allege Comey falsely denied using intermediaries to leak classified material to the press, and that he used Richman as an outside conduit for anti-Trump leaks while Richman held a government contract.
Six years ago, Judge James Boasberg—himself an Obama appointee—signed the warrant that allowed the FBI to seize Richman’s devices. But Kollar-Kotelly’s order, issued from a separate court and in a separate district, now directs the destruction of that same evidence.
“This ruling threatens the separation of powers essential to the Republic, and either the D.C. Circuit or Supreme Court must intervene immediately,” said Mike Davis, president of the Article III Project and a former Senate Judiciary Committee counsel.
Richman, who is not charged in the case, petitioned for the return of his emails under Rule 41(g) of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, arguing that the government violated his Fourth Amendment rights by seizing and reviewing his communications. Rule 41(g) typically allows a defendant to recover property obtained in an unlawful search—but in this case, Richman is a third party, not a defendant, and the communications in question include evidence against a sitting defendant, James Comey.
Despite this, Judge Kollar-Kotelly granted Richman’s motion and ordered that a single copy of the emails be provided to Judge Michael Nachmanoff, who is presiding over the Comey case in Virginia, but barred prosecutors from reviewing or relying on the material in any future filings.
“The FBI and the prosecution will be unable to review them in their efforts to seek a new indictment if [Judge Cameron] Currie’s dismissal ruling survives on appeal,” Davis said. “Even if a higher court reverses Currie, the government’s inability to review the emails to use as evidence and prepare for trial would massively hamper its case.”
Judge Currie, another Clinton appointee in South Carolina, dismissed the Comey indictment last month, ruling that the appointment of interim U.S. Attorney Lindsey Halligan—who led the prosecution—was unconstitutional. The Justice Department has appealed Currie’s ruling to the Fourth Circuit.
Davis called the ruling “unprecedented judicial sabotage,” arguing that “Richman has run to a partisan Democrat judge not even involved in the criminal case — and not even in the same district — to procure the destruction of crucial evidence in that case in an obvious effort to assist his friend Comey.”
In a separate op-ed published by Fox News, Davis warned that the decision fits a larger pattern of “leftist judicial interference” aimed at shielding political allies while undermining accountability for the Trump-era lawfare architects.
“Now, a Clinton-appointed judge in the District of Columbia, Colleen Kollar-Kotelly, has interfered even more egregiously with the government’s case,” Davis wrote. “Courts do not order the FBI to destroy evidence in pending investigations — except when the evidence is harmful to a lawfare perpetrator like Comey.”
The Justice Department is expected to seek an emergency stay from the D.C. Circuit or the U.S. Supreme Court before Monday’s deadline.
If the order stands, prosecutors may lose access to one of the few remaining troves of direct evidence linking Comey to alleged leaks and obstruction. And if higher courts fail to intervene, it could mark the first time in recent memory that a federal judge outside a criminal case has ordered the destruction of key evidence against a former FBI director.
One Word in the Rain
One Word in the Rain
The cemetery closed at five.
Everyone who worked at Maplewood Memorial knew this, and the sign at the front gate made it plain, and Gerald Finch — security, eleven years, keys on his belt and rules in his blood — enforced it without apology. Five o’clock. Not five-oh-one. Not five-fifteen because someone needed just a little more time. Five.
The rain had started around four-thirty, and by five it was coming down hard enough to turn the gravel paths into shallow rivers and fill the stone-lined gutters with fast brown water. Most visitors had already left. Most visitors had umbrellas and cars and warm places to be.
The old man did not.
He had arrived sometime in the early afternoon — Gerald had clocked him coming through the gate around two, a small, bent figure in a coat that had been decent once, maybe fifteen years ago, carrying a bundle of wildflowers wrapped in wet newspaper. He had gone to the same grave he always went to, in the east quadrant under the oak that had lost two major branches in last winter’s ice storm. Gerald knew the grave. Marie Elspeth Holloway, 1952–2019. Beloved. The old man came every week. Sometimes twice.
Gerald had never learned his name.
At five-oh-two, Gerald made his round.
The old man was still there — kneeling in the wet grass, head bowed, the wildflowers laid against the base of the headstone. Beside him, pressed against his arm, was a small girl. Six, maybe seven, in a yellow raincoat that was the brightest thing in the entire cemetery. She had her grandfather’s white hair in miniature, and she was watching his face the way children watch the faces of people they love when those people are sad — with total concentration, helpless and devoted.
Gerald cleared his throat.
The old man looked up.
“Visiting hours are over,” Gerald said. He kept his voice flat. Flat was professional.
“Just another few minutes,” the old man said. “Please. We came a long way.”
“Sir, I’ve told you before—”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Gerald reached down — he didn’t think about it, didn’t decide to do it the way you decide things, it was just the motion his hand made, trained by a decade of enforcement — and he took the wildflowers from the base of the headstone and dropped them into the nearest puddle.
“Visiting hours,” he said again, “are over.”
The old man stared at the flowers floating away in the brown water. The newspaper wrapping came apart. The stems separated. Yellow and white petals spread across the surface of the puddle and drifted toward the drainage gutter.
He had carried those flowers a long way.
His face did something that old faces do when the last small thing is taken — it didn’t collapse dramatically, it just came undone, quietly, from the inside out. His chin dropped. His shoulders curved inward. And he began to cry in the way old men cry, which is worse than any other kind of crying, because there’s no performance left in it, no hope that tears will change anything. Just grief, released.
The little girl pressed herself against him. Her small arms went around as much of him as they could reach.
“Grandpa, don’t cry,” she said. “We can bring more flowers next time. We can bring the purple ones she liked.”
“She liked all of them,” the old man managed. “She always said — she said it wasn’t the flower that mattered.”
“I know. You told me.” The girl tightened her arms. “It’s that someone brought them.”
Gerald took a step back.
He didn’t know why.
Something about the girl’s voice — the matter-of-fact tenderness of it, the complete absence of self-consciousness — had gotten into a gap in his professionalism and lodged there. He took a step back and looked at his own hands and the puddle and the floating flowers, and he felt the specific, nauseating discomfort of someone who has just understood that they’ve done something wrong.
He was still standing there, recalibrating, when he heard the sound behind him.
Heels on gravel. The particular cadence of expensive shoes moving fast.
He turned.
The woman was in her mid-forties, dark coat, silk scarf, umbrella she’d forgotten to open gripped in one hand. She had come from the parking area — Gerald had seen her car, a silver sedan, sitting at the far end of the lot for the better part of an hour. He had assumed she was on a phone call. He had assumed she couldn’t decide whether to come in.
She had been watching.
She was walking toward them now with the focused, unsteady movement of someone whose legs are working on instinct because the rest of them is somewhere else entirely. Her eyes were fixed on the old man, who still had his face turned down toward the puddle, toward the scattered flowers.
She stopped six feet away.
She looked at the white hair. At the bent shoulders. At the threadbare coat. At the small girl in the yellow raincoat looking back at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Grandpa,” the girl said quietly, “that lady is staring at us.”
The old man raised his head.
For three full seconds, neither of them moved.
Twenty-two years. Gerald didn’t know that — couldn’t know it — but it was written in the space between them, in the way the woman’s umbrella slipped from her fingers and hit the gravel and neither of them reacted to the sound.
Twenty-two years since a door slammed in a house on Calloway Street. Twenty-two years since words were said that both of them had spent decades deciding could never be unsaid. Twenty-two years of a silence so long it had become its own kind of relationship — the relationship of two people who had chosen absence over the risk of trying again.
The girl looked between them.
“Do you know that lady?” she asked her grandfather.
The old man’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The woman took one step forward. Then another. The rain hit her face and darkened her coat and she did not seem to feel any of it.
Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a word at all.
It was the word you say before you’ve decided to say anything. The word that lives so deep it bypasses the part of you that protects itself.
“Dad?”
The old man closed his eyes.
The girl looked up at the woman.
The woman looked down at the girl — really looked, for the first time — and something new moved across her face now, something that existed alongside the shock and the grief and the twenty-two years. Something that looked, cautiously and terribly, like the first movement of a question she hadn’t known she needed to ask.
“Who is she?” the woman whispered. “Who is this little girl?”
The old man opened his eyes.
The rain fell between them.
He said her name — the woman’s name, his daughter’s name, the name he had not spoken aloud in longer than he could honestly remember — and the sound of it hit her like a hand against the chest, stopping her breath, stopping her feet, stopping everything.
“There’s so much,” he said, “that I have to tell you.”
