Annual financial disclosures have once again unveiled the delightful perks of being a Supreme Court justice, akin to being part of an exclusive club where the dress code involves robes, not tuxedos. These revelations include jaunts to lecture in Europe, Latin America, and Hawaii—because who wouldn’t want to mix jurisprudence with a tan? And let’s not forget the millions earned from book deals, because apparently, the wisdom imparted from the bench isn’t quite enough; it must also be bound in leather and sold for $29.99.
This annual peek behind the curtain, mandated by a quaint little law from the 1970s—ah, the post-Watergate era of naive accountability—forces these paragons of impartiality to disclose their gifts, travel, and outside income. Of course, this has led to increased scrutiny, especially after Justice Clarence Thomas forgot to mention a few lavish gifts and travels from his wealthy pals, including a Texas billionaire. But who hasn’t accidentally misplaced a trip to a private island in their memory?
Justice Thomas, in his latest report, listed no gifts or private jet travel. Instead, he offered a charming footnote about “inadvertently omitting” a life insurance policy from previous disclosures. Apparently, this policy was as forgettable as a summer blockbuster, having been purchased in 2001 and terminated last month. It’s comforting to know that even the most esteemed legal minds can get confused about whether such trivial matters need disclosing.
The forms themselves are a minimalist’s dream, providing just enough detail to tantalize but not enough to inform. They do, however, offer a colorful glimpse into the justices’ lives when they’re not busy shaping the nation’s legal landscape. But let’s not kid ourselves—the real takeaway here is not the specifics of the disclosures, but the broader question: in a world where transparency is often touted as a virtue, why does it feel like we’re perpetually squinting through frosted glass?
