From the smallest misdemeanor up to the biggest crime, everyone

“From the smallest misdemeanor up to the biggest crime, everyone is brought before a judge. And that means there's a huge backlog in the American legal system. There are prosecutors and public defenders and judges who are trying to keep their head above water in the tide of this bureaucracy and red tape.” Thus spoke Clare-Hope Ashitey, an actress and observer of society who, though trained in the art of storytelling, speaks here with the voice of a philosopher. Her words are not merely about the courts—they are about the burden of justice, the weary machinery that groans under the weight of its own creation. In this reflection, she reveals a profound truth about the modern age: that even systems built for fairness can drown in their own complexity, and that those who labor within them are not villains or saviors, but humans—struggling, like all of us, against the tide.

Clare-Hope Ashitey, known for her performances that often touch the deep moral fibers of humanity, spoke these words after portraying characters entangled in the moral webs of crime and law. Her observation arises not from distance, but from empathy—she has seen, through art and through study, the exhaustion of those who serve within the American legal system. Her words point to the immensity of the structure—a system that seeks to weigh every act, from the petty theft to the grave offense, under the same solemn scales of justice. It is a noble ambition, yet one that, in its scope, threatens to collapse beneath its own weight. For when every sin, however small, demands its day in court, the system becomes not a temple of justice, but a labyrinth of delay and despair.

In the ancient world, justice was swift and personal. Kings, elders, or councils sat in judgment, and though they often erred, their decisions carried immediacy. But as civilizations grew, so too did their laws, multiplying like vines upon the pillars of power. The Greeks spoke of Dikē, the goddess of justice, who carried both the sword and the balance, symbolizing the eternal struggle between mercy and order. Yet even they warned that law, when tangled in bureaucracy, becomes its own tyranny. Ashitey’s insight echoes this timeless warning: that when the pursuit of perfect justice becomes endless procedure, the soul of justice itself begins to wither.

Consider the story of the New York public defender’s office, where attorneys often carry hundreds of cases at once. There are men and women, sworn to uphold the Constitution, who must meet a dozen clients in a single day, barely learning their names before standing beside them in court. Trials delayed, lives on hold, families waiting for verdicts that never come—these are not mere statistics but the daily reality of a system overwhelmed. The judges, too, sit beneath stacks of case files that seem to grow like mountains; the prosecutors must balance truth with expedience; and those accused—whether guilty or innocent—are caught in a web they cannot untangle. This is the backlog Ashitey speaks of, a river dammed by its own intent to serve all equally.

Her words, however, do not condemn the system—they humanize it. She does not sneer at the lawyers or judges who “try to keep their head above water,” but honors them as pilgrims of justice, struggling to fulfill their duty in an imperfect world. The image she paints—of men and women gasping in the sea of red tape—should stir both sympathy and reflection. For bureaucracy is not the enemy of justice by design; it is its unintended consequence, born from fear of error and love of procedure. Each new rule meant to protect the innocent becomes another stone upon the chest of those tasked to carry it. Thus, justice, in its attempt to guard against injustice, risks suffocating itself.

Ashitey’s observation also touches upon the deeper paradox of civilization: that order requires structure, yet too much structure breeds paralysis. In her quote lies a quiet plea—not for anarchy, but for renewal. The ancients believed that even the finest laws must be pruned, like the olive tree, lest they grow wild and unyielding. In the same spirit, Ashitey invites us to reimagine justice not as an edifice of endless corridors, but as a living thing—something that breathes, adapts, and serves with compassion as well as precision. True justice, she reminds us, must not only be fair; it must be accessible, timely, and humane.

The lesson, then, is as clear as it is humbling: systems are only as just as the humans who sustain them. Let us not scorn those who labor within the courts but support them, reform with them, and question with them. Let every citizen see that bureaucracy, though faceless, is made of faces—of weary clerks, overworked defenders, patient judges, and frightened defendants. Each one deserves not condemnation, but understanding. To heal the system, we must first see the humanity within it.

So remember, children of the future, the wisdom of Clare-Hope Ashitey: that justice must serve not only the law, but the living. When bureaucracy rises like a tide, let compassion be the anchor. When the machinery of order groans, let reform be the oil that soothes it. For justice is not found in the weight of papers, nor in the clamor of courts—it is found in the balance between law and mercy, duty and empathy, structure and soul. Only when that balance is restored will the great river of justice flow freely once more, carrying with it both truth and grace.