FBI’s Comey and Confidant Star in D.C.’s Latest Legal Cliffhanger

Max Sterling, 12/7/2025 Comey’s post-FBI drama morphs into legal theater as a federal judge slaps the DOJ’s hand, freezing their digital evidence grab and stoking Fourth Amendment fires. Secrets sealed, drama paused—America’s favorite legal soap opera refuses to fade, with the next act looming behind a velvet judicial curtain.

The latest act arrived not with a whimper but the dramatic flair worthy of a Sorkin rewrite. Judge Kollar-Kotelly, a Clinton-era appointee fluent in capital intrigue, slapped down a temporary order halting federal prosecutors from rummaging through the digital debris scooped from Richman during the murky investigations of 2019 and 2020. In plain English: hands off that hard drive until the court figures out who’s actually breaking the rules.

“Richman is likely to succeed on the merits,” the ruling contends, branding the feds’ data grab a probable Fourth Amendment foul. Translation? No more digital fishing expeditions without a solid warrant. Apparently, there are still rules—dusty, constitutional ones, at that.

Now, the government’s fixation here is no secret. In their quest to nail former FBI Director Comey on claims that reek of Washington’s favorite taboos—suspected fibbing, obstruction, the always-popular improper leaks—they’d leaned heavily on evidence clawed from Richman’s devices. Prosecutors had staked much on the chance of finding smoking-gun exchanges with reporters, particularly regarding that endlessly replayed Clinton investigation. History, it seems, is in no hurry to quit making cameos.

But plot twists abound. A separate judge called out the lead prosecutor’s appointment as, to use the technical term, “not legal”—a little paperwork hiccup with large consequences. On November 24, that case skidded to a halt, leaving the Justice Department boxed in, at least for now.

Even so, it’s hard to shake the sense that more chapters are lurking in the wings. The DOJ, ever-hopeful, floats the possibility of a fresh indictment, undeterred by procedural setbacks or mounting evidence mishandling. In the meantime, Richman fires back, launching his own legal missile demanding his files be returned or deleted, and seeking a ban on future “snooping”—a word with surprisingly little legalese but a world of meaning in D.C.

The deadline for federal compliance—December 8, high noon, no less—adds a note of theater. One half expects a dramatic handoff in a government basement, phones on silent, someone nervously checking a watch. Whether the next twist comes before or after the holidays is anyone’s guess. Washington is, after all, a city allergic to closure.

If that weren’t enough, the earlier investigation had already raised serious eyebrows. Judge Fitzpatrick pointed to DOJ blunders handling Richman’s digital life—it all felt a tad careless for a probe drenched in accusations of classified leaks. Neither Richman nor Comey have actually been charged, as of now, but the relief is probably small comfort in a city where reputations know no presumption of innocence.

Step back for a second, and the whole saga reads like a choose-your-own-adventure. Is this legal drama a righteous defense of the Fourth Amendment, or just another late-night rerun of governmental gamesmanship? To some, it’s proof that even the most dogged investigators have to step back when the Constitution intervenes. To others, it signals the DOJ won’t drop the thorniest cases, not when the scent of unfinished business still lingers.

Meanwhile, anticipation builds—not just among legal junkies, but anyone who thrills at the spectacle of real-life drama playing out between footnotes and subpoenas. Will the DOJ throw one more Hail Mary at Comey, or does the Fourth Amendment stand tall enough to box them in until 2025 comes knocking? At present, secrets are locked away, the files off-limits, and every major player—judges, journalists, and internet sleuths alike—waits for the next scene. The curtain, as always, refuses to fall.

Whoever said American law moves by the book never watched D.C.’s main stage. Just when it looked as though James Comey’s post-FBI journey was winding down, federal Judge Colleen Kollar-Kotelly—her reputation sharpened by years in Washington’s legal theater—hijacked the narrative with a decision that feels ripped from primetime TV. Imagine a gavel crash echoing around a marble chamber, and suddenly the spotlight swings to Daniel Richman, the law professor who’d probably prefer a quiet syllabus to a starring role as the government’s reluctant quarry.The latest act arrived not with a whimper but the dramatic flair worthy of a Sorkin rewrite. Judge Kollar-Kotelly, a Clinton-era appointee fluent in capital intrigue, slapped down a temporary order halting federal prosecutors from rummaging through the digital debris scooped from Richman during the murky investigations of 2019 and 2020. In plain English: hands off that hard drive until the court figures out who’s actually breaking the rules.“Richman is likely to succeed on the merits,” the ruling contends, branding the feds’ data grab a probable Fourth Amendment foul. Translation? No more digital fishing expeditions without a solid warrant. Apparently, there are still rules—dusty, constitutional ones, at that.Now, the government’s fixation here is no secret. In their quest to nail former FBI Director Comey on claims that reek of Washington’s favorite taboos—suspected fibbing, obstruction, the always-popular improper leaks—they’d leaned heavily on evidence clawed from Richman’s devices. Prosecutors had staked much on the chance of finding smoking-gun exchanges with reporters, particularly regarding that endlessly replayed Clinton investigation. History, it seems, is in no hurry to quit making cameos.But plot twists abound. A separate judge called out the lead prosecutor’s appointment as, to use the technical term, “not legal”—a little paperwork hiccup with large consequences. On November 24, that case skidded to a halt, leaving the Justice Department boxed in, at least for now.Even so, it’s hard to shake the sense that more chapters are lurking in the wings. The DOJ, ever-hopeful, floats the possibility of a fresh indictment, undeterred by procedural setbacks or mounting evidence mishandling. In the meantime, Richman fires back, launching his own legal missile demanding his files be returned or deleted, and seeking a ban on future “snooping”—a word with surprisingly little legalese but a world of meaning in D.C.The deadline for federal compliance—December 8, high noon, no less—adds a note of theater. One half expects a dramatic handoff in a government basement, phones on silent, someone nervously checking a watch. Whether the next twist comes before or after the holidays is anyone’s guess. Washington is, after all, a city allergic to closure.If that weren’t enough, the earlier investigation had already raised serious eyebrows. Judge Fitzpatrick pointed to DOJ blunders handling Richman’s digital life—it all felt a tad careless for a probe drenched in accusations of classified leaks. Neither Richman nor Comey have actually been charged, as of now, but the relief is probably small comfort in a city where reputations know no presumption of innocence.Step back for a second, and the whole saga reads like a choose-your-own-adventure. Is this legal drama a righteous defense of the Fourth Amendment, or just another late-night rerun of governmental gamesmanship? To some, it’s proof that even the most dogged investigators have to step back when the Constitution intervenes. To others, it signals the DOJ won’t drop the thorniest cases, not when the scent of unfinished business still lingers.Meanwhile, anticipation builds—not just among legal junkies, but anyone who thrills at the spectacle of real-life drama playing out between footnotes and subpoenas. Will the DOJ throw one more Hail Mary at Comey, or does the Fourth Amendment stand tall enough to box them in until 2025 comes knocking? At present, secrets are locked away, the files off-limits, and every major player—judges, journalists, and internet sleuths alike—waits for the next scene. The curtain, as always, refuses to fall.