The right to due process is a right that belongs to everyone—not just the innocent, not just the respectable, not just those we agree with—but to all people, because that is the cornerstone of a just society. This concept is not simply a legal mechanism, nor is it a procedural formality buried in the technical language of constitutional law. It is a promise. A promise that the government will not act arbitrarily, that every person—regardless of class, race, social standing, or allegation—is entitled to fairness before their life, liberty, or property is taken from them. This essay is a defense of that promise, a defense of the people, and a call to reframe how we understand and respond to unjust legal proceedings.

At its core, the principle of due process is enshrined in two separate but equally important provisions of the United States Constitution. The Fifth Amendment, ratified in 1791, applies this right against the federal government, stating:

"No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury... nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation."

Later, in the wake of the Civil War and the abolition of slavery, the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868. Its Due Process Clause extended the same protections to actions taken by the states:

"...nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law..."

These two clauses form the legal foundation of civil liberties in the United States. Yet they are more than mere phrases. They represent a philosophical stance on the relationship between the citizen and the state—a limitation on power, a guardian of freedom, and a shield for those without the influence or means to defend themselves.

In today’s world, legal proceedings can sometimes become spectacles. Trials are rushed, evidence is withheld, and the presumption of innocence is forgotten in the frenzied pursuit of conviction. But due process resists that tide. It insists that justice cannot be justice if it is not fair, that the ends do not justify the means, and that no person shall be condemned without an opportunity to be heard.

Due process is not simply a matter of procedural fairness—it is a moral stance. When we say that someone is entitled to due process, we are acknowledging that every individual possesses inherent dignity and worth. We are saying that the state must treat even the accused with humanity and respect. This moral foundation is crucial because laws and governments derive their legitimacy not from coercion but from consent—consent that is only meaningful when citizens are protected from abuse.

When people are deprived of due process, it is not just a legal failure—it is a betrayal of the social contract. It means the state has become what it was created to restrain: a force of arbitrary control. The power to accuse must never be confused with the power to convict. Between accusation and conviction stands due process—the barrier that separates democracy from tyranny.

Let us now turn to the specific provisions of the Fifth Amendment. It is a remarkably concise statement that captures numerous protections:

• The Grand Jury Clause: “No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury...” This clause protects citizens from unfounded accusations. A grand jury acts as a buffer between the state and the individual, evaluating whether there is sufficient evidence for a trial. It prevents the government from detaining someone on a whim or political motive.

• The Double Jeopardy Clause: “...nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb...” This protection guards against repeated prosecutions for the same alleged act. The state must present its strongest case once, and only once. This clause not only spares the accused from emotional and financial strain but also preserves the integrity of the judicial process.

• The Self-Incrimination Clause: “...nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself...” This embodies the principle that the burden of proof lies with the accuser. No person should be forced to assist in their own prosecution—a recognition of the immense psychological pressure inherent in state interrogation.

• The Due Process Clause: “...nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law...” This clause underpins the others, standing as a firewall between governmental power and individual rights. It requires fair procedures, neutral judges, notice of charges, and the opportunity to be heard.

Each of these clauses is a lifeline for the vulnerable. In a legal system that can be complex and intimidating, especially for the unrepresented or underprivileged, these protections are what keep justice from becoming a privilege of the powerful.

While the Fifth Amendment binds the federal government, the Fourteenth Amendment expands those same protections to actions by state governments. Before its passage, states were not bound by the Bill of Rights in many cases. This allowed injustices—especially against African Americans—to flourish unchecked in Southern legal systems. The Fourteenth Amendment sought to remedy this, guaranteeing that:

“No State shall... deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.”

This was a radical and necessary expansion. It affirmed that rights are not granted by the government—they are inherent. Whether federal or state, all levels of authority must respect the dignity and freedom of the individual. Over time, this clause has been the foundation for landmark rulings on civil rights, racial justice, marriage equality, and more. It is the instrument by which the Constitution lives and breathes in every courtroom, schoolhouse, and city street.

One of the most important applications of the Due Process Clause came in 1966 with the Supreme Court's decision in Miranda v. Arizona. The case centered on Ernesto Miranda, who confessed to a crime after hours of police interrogation, without being informed of his right to remain silent or to an attorney.

The Court ruled that such a confession could not stand. In doing so, it established the now-famous Miranda Rights: that anyone taken into police custody must be informed of their right to remain silent, their right to an attorney, and that anything they say may be used against them in court.

This ruling was not merely about police procedure—it was about restoring balance. Without knowledge of their rights, individuals are at the mercy of those in power. Miranda reaffirmed the idea that justice is not merely about guilt or innocence—it is about fairness. The due process clause, in this context, ensures that the state cannot manipulate ignorance into guilt. It recognizes that power must be held accountable, especially when it has the power to prosecute.

In recent decades, political rhetoric has sometimes sought to weaken due process under the impression of efficiency. People accused of crimes—especially if those crimes evoke fear or outrage—are portrayed as monsters undeserving of fairness. Yet this is precisely when due process matters most. The Constitution does not protect people because they are innocent; it protects them because they are human.

Every time we bypass due process in the name of expedience, we undermine the very foundation of justice. We create a system where the accusation is tantamount to conviction, where the public's outrage becomes the judge, and where truth is subordinated to power.

To defend due process is to defend the notion that every person is entitled to dignity, that no life may be taken without accountability, and that the rule of law applies not just to the governed but to the government itself.

In defending due process, we do not defend criminals—we defend civilization. We defend the ideals that keep the state in check, that ensure trials are not lynchings, and that recognize that the value of a society is measured not by how it treats the powerful, but by how it treats the powerless.

The due process clauses of the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments are not optional formalities. They are necessities. They are the voice in the courtroom that speaks for the silent, the shield that guards against the weight of unchecked power, and the mechanism that binds together law and morality.

This is not just a legal argument—it is a human one. A just society is one that refuses to trade away fairness for speed, that holds fast to the truth even when the crowd demands a scapegoat, and that recognizes every person as worthy of protection, no matter how loud the accusation or how dark the moment.

The people of the United States are not protected by the goodwill of their government. They are protected by laws—laws that limit what the government can do, how it may do it, and under what conditions. These laws apply to every case, without exception, and their authority must never be determined by popular opinion, political advantage, or media coverage. To allow such influence to alter the administration of justice is to allow the Constitution to be reinterpreted not by courts, but by public mood.

 

In a nation founded upon the sacred covenant of liberty and justice, the erosion of constitutional protections is not merely a legal failure—it is a moral betrayal. The case of Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia represents more than a singular injustice; it is an indictment of an administration that allowed political expediency to override the rule of law. The Trump administration, through a pattern of executive overreach and disregard for civil liberties, has contributed to the deterioration of one of the most essential principles enshrined in the U.S. Constitution: the right to due process.

Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia, a lawful resident of the United States, found his liberty stripped, his status invalidated, and his humanity disregarded—all without the protections guaranteed under the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments. His deportation, carried out under the label of national security and immigration enforcement, was not preceded by a fair trial. Nor was it based on a thorough judicial review. Instead, it was rooted in an ideology that viewed constitutional rights as optional, a dangerous philosophy with grave consequences.

Due process is not a courtesy extended by the government when convenient; it is a constitutional obligation. The Fifth Amendment provides that no person shall be "deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law," while the Fourteenth Amendment applies this guarantee to actions taken by state and federal authorities alike. These words are not open to interpretation—they are a mandate, a non-negotiable standard of justice. Yet in the case of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, that mandate was blatantly ignored.

Under the Trump administration, the government shifted toward a model of enforcement that too often bypassed judicial scrutiny. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents, emboldened by executive rhetoric, detained individuals without adequate explanation or legal representation. In Kilmar’s case, he was reportedly not informed of the exact grounds for his removal, nor was he provided the opportunity to contest his deportation in a court of law. His fate was decided not by a judge, but by administrative fiat.

Such a practice violates the essence of what the American legal system is supposed to protect. The presumption of innocence, the right to a hearing, the right to legal counsel—these are not privileges granted to a select few; they are rights belonging to all persons within the jurisdiction of the United States. The Supreme Court has long held that even non-citizens, once present in the country, are entitled to the protections of due process. The case of Yick Wo v. Hopkins (1886) clarified this, stating that the Constitution "protects all persons within the territory, without regard to any differences of race, of color, or of nationality."

And yet, the Trump administration willfully ignored these precedents. In its pursuit of aggressive immigration enforcement, it abandoned the legal foundations upon which the Republic stands. The deportation of Kilmar Abrego Garcia exemplifies this dereliction. It was not only unjust—it was unconstitutional.

The consequences of these actions extend far beyond the individual. When the government begins to treat constitutional rights as malleable, subject to the whims of those in power, the Republic begins to fall apart. The due process clauses were designed precisely to prevent such outcomes—to serve as a bulwark against tyranny. 

In the Trump era, due process became increasingly sidelined, particularly for those deemed politically inconvenient or socially undesirable. Kilmar was not a criminal. He had not been convicted of a crime nor charged with a felony. He was simply placed on a list, labeled a target, and removed without ceremony or justice. His story is not unique, but it is emblematic. It speaks to the ease with which a government, unchecked and unaccountable, can violate the rights of its people.

The erosion of due process during this time was further enabled by the administration’s use of executive orders and regulatory mandates. These instruments, while legal in their formation, were employed in ways that bypassed traditional legislative oversight and judicial review. In effect, the president governed by decree. The rights of the individual became subject to political calculation, rather than constitutional principle.

In analyzing the specific actions surrounding Kilmar’s deportation, we find a pattern of deliberate exclusion from the justice system. Legal advocates for Abrego Garcia stated that there was no prior notice of removal, no clear explanation of his alleged infractions, and no opportunity for his case to be heard in court. The removal was swift, secretive, and unjustified.

This is not the American way. Our system of governance is premised on accountability, on transparency, and most importantly, on adherence to the rule of law. When one branch of government—especially the executive—acts with impunity, the checks and balances that sustain our republic become meaningless. The Trump administration’s disregard for these principles not only harmed Kilmar Abrego Garcia—it harmed the Constitution and every citizen who depends upon it.

Furthermore, Kilmar’s deportation sets a dangerous precedent. If one individual can be removed from the country without trial or explanation, then so can many others. The precedent endangers everyone, not just immigrants. Today it may be Kilmar; tomorrow it may be someone else—an activist, a journalist, a political dissenter. When the government no longer respects its obligation to provide due process, no one is truly safe.

The people of the United States must reflect on what this means. The Constitution does not bend to the pressures of populism, nor does it yield to the agendas of the powerful. It is a permanent contract between the government and the governed. It promises that liberty will not be taken without reason, that justice will be administered fairly, and that every person—regardless of race, creed, or status—will be treated with dignity under the law.

Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia’s story is a tragedy, but it is also a warning. The erosion of due process is not a theoretical concern—it is a real and present danger. When we allow constitutional rights to be undermined in silence, we invite their complete collapse. If the government can remove a lawful resident without trial, then we must ask: what, if any, limits remain?

If we are to truly honor the promise of due process, we must be willing to defend it even when it is uncomfortable—even when the person in question is accused of a terrible act. Take, another example, the recent case of Luigi Mangione, the alleged killer of Brian Thompson.

Before a trial has even begun, before a judge has ruled on the admissibility of evidence, before a single piece of testimony has been heard, Mangione has already been condemned—not in a court of law, but in the court of public opinion. From the moment of his arrest, his rights were undermined. Reports confirm that Mangione was taken into custody without being informed of the charges against him and without being read his Miranda rights. This is not a minor procedural misstep. This is a direct violation of the fundamental protections guaranteed to every person under the Constitution.

The reading of Miranda rights is not just some formality recited from memory by arresting officers. It is a critical safeguard that ensures the accused understands their right to remain silent, their right to an attorney, and that anything they say can be used against them in court. When these rights are not communicated, the legitimacy of the entire legal process begins to unravel. It leaves the door open to coercion, confusion, and injustice. And more importantly—it compromises the state’s credibility in its pursuit of justice.

In Mangione’s case, he was not told why he was being detained. This alone should raise deep concern. Because when a citizen is stripped of their liberty without being told why, we are no longer operating within a system of laws—we are stepping into the dangerous territory of arbitrary power. That is not the America the Founders imagined. That is not what our legal system was built to protect.

Beyond the procedural violations lies an even more insidious threat: the collapse of the presumption of innocence.

From the moment the Mangione case reached the media, the narrative was clear—he was guilty. News outlets ran headlines that did not question, they convicted. Politicians commented publicly, some even calling for harsh sentencing before charges had formally been filed. The tone was unmistakable: Mangione had already been judged, not by a jury of his peers, but by a society that now views trials as formalities rather than necessities.

But this is not how justice works. Or at least, it’s not how it’s supposed to work.

In the United States, every person is entitled to a fair trial—a right that is explicitly protected under the Due Process Clause. This right is not contingent upon the severity of the accusation. It is not reserved for the innocent or the sympathetic. It is universal. And it is non-negotiable.

When the media declares guilt before the courts do, when public officials allow political motives to cloud legal proceedings, they are not only doing a disservice to the accused—they are undermining the very system they swore to uphold. They are creating a dangerous precedent, where justice is dictated by emotion and popularity, rather than facts and law.

This is why the Mangione case matters—not because of who he is, or what he may or may not have done, but because of what it represents. It is a test of whether we still believe in the rule of law. Whether we still believe that every person deserves their day in court. Whether we are still a country that values rights even when it is hard to do so.

Let us be clear: defending Mangione’s right to due process does not mean defending his alleged actions. It does not mean declaring his innocence. What it means is that we must not allow our anger—our desire for resolution—to override our commitment to fairness.

The Constitution was not written to protect the popular. It was written to protect the unpopular. Because it is in those moments—when we are tempted to cast someone aside—that we find out whether our principles are real or just convenient slogans.

Luigi Mangione may or may not be guilty of the crime he is accused of. That is for a court of law to determine, not the press, not politicians, and certainly not public opinion. But what is already certain is this: his rights have been violated. And if we accept that, if we allow the system to trample one person’s rights because of the crime they are accused of, then we open the door to having our own rights trampled when it is our turn to be judged.

The arrest and detainment of Luigi Mangione exposes a grave constitutional breach that must be understood not in the context of political discourse or media speculation, but within the foundational structure of American law.

He is an accused man, surrounded not by a jury, but by headlines. He was arrested without explanation, detained without clarity, and stripped of his right to be informed of the very liberties meant to protect him. There was no moment of pause. No presumption of innocence. He was named, and with that name came the weight of collective judgment—a judgment delivered not in courtrooms, but through screens, headlines, and words of those who had already made up their minds.

This is not the promise we inherited.

The Constitution was never meant to protect only the innocent, nor only the beloved. Its protections are not contingent upon our comfort, nor our certainty. They are there for the moments that test our commitment to fairness—moments that demand we stand not in defense of the person, but in defense of the principle. It is easy to uphold due process when we sympathize with the accused. It is far harder, and far more necessary, when we do not.

For what are we, if we let process be dictated by our instincts and prejudices? What becomes of liberty when law is shaped by public pressure and not by deliberate, dispassionate judgment?

When Mangione was denied his right to be informed, when the procedures that ensure fairness were bypassed, something broke—not just for him, but for all of us. For the rule of law, once compromised, does not contain the damage.

Restraint. That is what due process is. It is the restraint of power. The restraint of vengeance. The restraint of assumptions. It is the nation saying to itself: we are not our fear, we are not our rage, we are not our worst moments.

And yet, in cases like Mangione’s, that restraint is abandoned. Not because the system has forgotten, but because we have. We, who consume the news before we question it. We, who speak of guilt in conversation as if the verdict were already carved in stone. We, who trade truth for immediacy, and justice for certainty.

In this moment, we must ask ourselves: Do we still believe in the presumption of innocence, or do we merely invoke it when it suits our cause? Do we still recognize the face of tyranny—not in the form of a dictator, but in the subtle erosion of a man’s right to a fair trial?

There will always be a Mangione. Another name. Another accusation. Another moment when the process is inconvenient and the public appetite for judgment is insatiable. And each time, we will be faced with the same quiet question: will we hold the line? Or will we bend once more, until the idea of a fair trial is no longer a principle but a memory?

The true danger is not in a single violation, but in our ability to rationalize it. To tell ourselves, this time is different, this one doesn’t deserve it, this case is too obvious. But the law was not written for obvious cases. It was written for all cases. And in our failure to protect the rights of one, we build a precedent that will live long after the headlines fade.

Luigi Mangione, guilty or innocent, is not the center of this story. He is its symptom. A reflection of a society that has grown increasingly impatient with the process of justice, and far too comfortable with its erosion.

What is lost when due process dies is not just fairness. It is the very thing that separates civilization from chaos. It is the difference between judgment and vengeance, between a republic of laws and a state of power.

In our founding documents, in the fragility of our legal soul, there is a promise—not of perfection, but of restraint. A recognition that power must be bound by principle, even when it is hardest to do so.

We have lived through centuries of wars, divisions, and upheavals, but what has always endured is the idea that law must be impartial, and that every person, regardless of the accusations against them, must be treated with dignity.

It is that idea now standing on trial.

The United States legal system, though imperfect, is designed around restraint—restraint of authority, restraint of judgment, and restraint of action until proof has been established through fair procedure. The moment that restraint is abandoned, the rule of law gives way to discretion, and discretion, when unchecked, becomes tyranny.

 

Let us remember—quietly, solemnly, and with purpose—that the erosion of justice never announces itself. It arrives through convenience, through fear, through the slow acceptance that some are not worth protecting. But history has shown us, time and time again, that once we decide some are unworthy, none of us are truly safe.

 

This is not just about one man. This is about all of us.

Because the Constitution doesn’t draw lines between “the good” and “the bad.” It doesn’t discriminate between the favored and the forgotten. It stands as a guardrail for every citizen. When we ignore that, we weaken the very structure that binds our nation together.

So, whether you support Luigi Mangione or condemn him, whether you believe in his innocence or are convinced of his guilt—it does not matter. What matters is this: he is entitled to due process. And in defending that, we defend the law itself. We defend justice—not as an idea, but as a practice.

Justice, after all, is not loud. It is not immediate. It is not emotional. It is deliberate, slow, and principled.

The erosion of due process is not merely a flaw in the legal foundation—it is a threat to the very architecture of American freedom. The Constitution does not ask whether a man is liked or disliked, feared or favored, innocent or guilty. It commands that he be given his day in court under the protections of law, free from coercion, prejudice, and public condemnation. This is not a suggestion. It is the law of the land.

The moment we accept exceptions to this rule, the moment we tolerate silence when the state bypasses procedure, we weaken the rights of every citizen, ourselves included. The right to due process is not a technicality. It is the keystone that upholds all other rights. Strip it away, and what remains is not justice—but power without accountability.

Whether in the case of Luigi Mangione or any future case that may arise, the issue at hand is not about protecting criminals, but about protecting the law itself. A government that can suspend constitutional protections in the name of urgency or politics is a government no longer restrained by law. And a people who stand idly by as such power grows are a people forgetting their own inheritance.

In defending due process, we do not defend the accused alone—we defend the Constitution. And in doing so, we defend ourselves.