Saving Justice

How can a society maintain justice when truth itself is under siege? In Saving Justice: Truth, Transparency, and Trust, former FBI director James Comey examines this question through the lens of his decades-long career at the U.S. Department of Justice. He argues that justice in America depends not only on enforcement and law but on an invisible reservoir of public trust — built drop by drop through integrity, transparency, and truth-telling. When that reservoir is drained by partisanship or dishonesty, the entire system falters.

Comey contends that the Justice Department and the FBI are supposed to be separate from politics, accountable only to the Constitution and the American people. Yet, as his career demonstrates—from his youthful days as a prosecutor in Rudy Giuliani’s Manhattan office, through his time as deputy attorney general, to his leadership of the FBI under Presidents Obama and Trump—that ideal is constantly tested. The book chronicles the lessons learned from those tests and how truth can be both the Justice Department’s weapon and its shield.

The Moral Arc of a Prosecutor’s Journey

Comey structures his story across four phases: Learning Justice, Seeing the Reservoir, Protecting the Reservoir, and Draining the Reservoir. Each phase captures an evolution—from learning what ethical law enforcement means, to leading others in defense of institutional values, to witnessing their degradation under political pressure. Through gripping narratives that read more like morality plays than policy lectures, he explores how personal failures, bureaucratic mistakes, and political corruption interact to threaten justice itself.

From chasing mobsters in New York to navigating terrorism cases post-9/11, Comey’s career coincides with defining crises in American justice. Yet, what emerges isn’t just a memoir—it’s a meditation on ethics. Every chapter contrasts two paths: one of self-interest, expediency, and image-making, and another of transparency, humility, and fidelity to facts.

Truth as a Public Trust

At the heart of Comey’s philosophy is the idea that the Justice Department’s authority doesn’t come from power alone; it comes from the belief of citizens that its agents tell the truth. This faith—the reservoir—empowers prosecutors to act on behalf of a nation, not a party. Every honest admission, every open explanation of failure, fills that reservoir. Every lie, omission, or political favor drains it.

For instance, Comey recounts that one of his first supervisors drilled into him that he didn’t represent the FBI, witnesses, or even himself—he represented justice. That moral clarity took years to internalize. Later, when he failed to stop a prosecution he doubted, or when other agents lied under oath, the lesson became painfully real: indifference to small lies plants the seeds of systemic rot. In contrast, truth—even when it embarrasses—builds legitimacy. The book’s title literally refers to rescuing that belief system from decay.

Why This Battle Matters Now

Comey wrote Saving Justice after witnessing firsthand the corrosion of truth under President Donald Trump and Attorney General William Barr. He describes Trump’s “death-by-a-thousand-lies” approach and Barr’s distortion of the Mueller Report as acts that drained decades of accumulated trust from the Justice Department’s dam. By aligning law enforcement with political loyalty and weaponizing dishonesty, they endangered the very foundation of democracy.

But Comey does not simply condemn. He prescribes restoration through a return to truth-telling, transparency, and ethical courage. He points to historical recoveries—especially Edward Levi’s reform of the Justice Department after Watergate—as proof that the path back is possible. The steps are simple yet demanding: leaders must radiate integrity; agencies must admit mistakes publicly; and every official must remember that their real client is justice itself.

Ultimately, this book matters because it bridges personal morality with civic responsibility. Comey invites you, the reader, to see justice not as a distant institution but as a reflection of national and individual character. The truth—spoken plainly and courageously—isn’t just a professional duty; it’s the oxygen of democracy. If America forgets how to tell the truth about itself, even its laws cannot save it.

Comey opens his journey with stories from his early days as a federal prosecutor in the Southern District of New York, where he internalized the Department of Justice’s most sacred rule: a prosecutor’s client is not a boss, witness, or political figure—it is justice itself. He learns this lesson the hard way, in gritty settings ranging from crack-house raids to Mafia trials.

The Fly and the Missing Drugs

In one of his first cases, a recovering addict turned informant named “The Fly” steals the very drug evidence he purchased for the FBI. The episode almost derails Comey’s career. Instead of covering up, his supervisors force him to publicly inform the judge and defense lawyers, ensuring that the whole truth—however embarrassing—is laid bare. The lesson is searing: institutions maintain credibility not by winning cases but by telling the inconvenient truth.

Choosing Right over Career

A later case, involving a naïve man named Henry Flete charged as a drug conspirator, tests Comey’s conscience. Though legally guilty, Flete’s role in the crime was minimal. When his superiors refuse to drop the prosecution, Comey reluctantly argues the case he doesn’t believe in—winning a hollow victory. The jury, however, acquits. Comey realizes that justice demands moral courage, not bureaucratic compliance. “I should have refused,” he concludes, promising to never again argue something he knows is wrong.

Throughout these early years, truth becomes more than a moral ideal; it becomes a professional compass. Whether dealing with lying witnesses or internal misconduct, Comey discovers that integrity, transparency, and humility form the fabric of public trust. These early mistakes shape his lifelong commitment to ensuring the government’s power is exercised with self-restraint and candor.

From fake fur robberies to undercover informants, Comey’s stories in “Liars” and “Bugs” illustrate that lies—from criminals and agents alike—corrode justice at every level. He argues that lying to the government is not just a crime; it’s an assault on the very agreement that makes law possible.

The Fur Warehouse and the Grand Jury

A dramatic case of a fake fur-warehouse robbery becomes Comey’s parable on perjury. A business owner lies before a grand jury to collect insurance money, fabricating an elaborate scene of masked robbers. When the FBI uncovers the truth, Comey prosecutes not the robbery, but the lie. The conviction, he notes, reinforced the Justice Department’s unwritten creed: truth is not negotiable. Without it, the legal system collapses into theater.

Why Even Small Lies Matter

In another case, a Ghanaian drug dealer’s wife lies under oath about their tribal origin—betrayed by naming her son “Yaw,” the Ashanti word for a boy born on Thursday. A tiny cultural slip exposes a vast falsehood. Comey reflects that even these “small” lies matter because they erode the invisible bond that lets jurors, judges, and citizens believe anything presented in court.

Comey’s moral takeaway mirrors that of ethicists like Immanuel Kant and writers such as Hannah Arendt: truth is not simply factual accuracy but a civic responsibility. If truth-telling dies in the justice system, democracy rots from the inside out.

When Comey describes the “reservoir,” he moves from personal ethics to institutional culture. He first glimpses the concept as a young attorney watching judges trust federal prosecutors implicitly. Later, as a leader, he recognizes that this trust—built over generations—is fragile currency. The Department of Justice’s authority rests not on fear or statutes but on the belief that its people are honest brokers.

Seeing the Reservoir

Years later, as U.S. Attorney and then deputy attorney general under George W. Bush, Comey sees how the reservoir operates in real life. Transparency fills it; concealment drains it. He learns to translate internal justice processes into public understanding—especially during controversies such as the detention of U.S. citizen José Padilla or the investigation into the exposure of CIA operative Valerie Plame. In both, he insists that the Department explain not only what it does but why it does so. Showing your work, he believes, is how you earn legitimacy.

(This idea echoes John Rawls’s “public reason” philosophy—decisions earn authority through openness rather than secrecy.)

Protecting What You Cannot See

Comey likens the reservoir to reputation in personal life: years to build, seconds to lose. Every decision—from admitting an error in a case to resisting political overreach—either adds or siphons drops. Once drained, as under Nixon or Trump, trust cannot be replaced by policy or fear. Only consistent honesty refills it.

For Comey, this concept becomes the ethical core of leadership. The Justice Department doesn’t just enforce law; it safeguards the collective faith that law itself is trustworthy.

In “At Main,” Comey reveals how the gears of political and moral responsibility grind against each other in Washington. As deputy attorney general, he faces cases like Sandy Berger’s theft of classified documents and the compromise of CIA agent Valerie Plame. Each situation forces him to balance justice and politics—a tension that defines the Department’s culture.

The Rule of the Missing ‘S’

Comey offers a memorable rule: political leaders can discuss “cases” only in the plural. Presidents can set enforcement priorities, but they must never interfere in any single case. The letter “s,” he insists, separates legitimate policy from illegitimate meddling. That linguistic insight encapsulates one of the book’s clearest lessons about maintaining institutional integrity.

He contrasts Presidents George W. Bush and Donald Trump to illustrate the difference. Bush, though publicly briefed on terrorism cases, never asked about an individual prosecution—even one involving his own advisers. Trump, by contrast, demanded loyalty pledges and repeatedly asked law enforcement to shield friends and punish rivals. The result: a collapse of the firewall between justice and politics.

Throughout his career, Comey sees transparency as the Department’s best defense against both public cynicism and political manipulation. From FBI mistakes in forensic lab work to the hair-analysis scandal that wrongly convicted defendants, he insists that the organization must admit errors publicly and without spin. The only way the Justice Department earns back trust, he argues, is by telling the truth—even about its own failures.

Telling the Whole Truth

Perhaps the book’s most powerful section, “The Whole Truth,” recounts the 2015 Charleston church massacre and the FBI’s failure to catch a background-check error that allowed Dylann Roof to buy his weapon. Comey immediately held a press conference to admit the mistake, spoke directly with victims’ families, and assured the nation no one was hiding the truth. “If the FBI isn’t trusted,” he explains, “it can’t keep people safe.”

Transparency Restores the Reservoir

Comey extends this logic to systemic injustices, from police bias in Ferguson to forensic science failures. Each time the Bureau opened its failures to public view, public trust increased. By contrast, every secrecy-fueled scandal—from Watergate to the mishandled Clinton investigation—proved the opposite. “If the truth erodes, the institution corrodes.”

Comey’s final chapters, “Shit Show,” “In Like Flynn,” and “The Web,” chronicle the Justice Department’s collapse into partisanship under Donald Trump. He narrates how the investigations into Hillary Clinton’s emails, Russian election interference, and the Michael Flynn case became crucibles testing whether truth could survive amid political fire.

Trump’s obsession with loyalty demanded personal allegiance from public servants. When Comey refused to offer it—insisting instead on “honest loyalty”—he was fired. The episodes that follow—Attorney General Barr’s misleading summary of the Mueller Report, interventions in cases of Trump allies Roger Stone and Michael Flynn, and the president’s relentless public lies—represent, to Comey, an unprecedented draining of the reservoir of trust built since Watergate.

Justice as Propaganda

Under Trump, Comey argues, law enforcement became a branding tool: the “Deep State” was vilified, facts became optional, and the attorney general functioned as the president’s lawyer. By convincing millions that the FBI was corrupt, Trump didn’t just attack political opponents—he undermined Americans’ faith in objective truth itself. “When truth dies,” Comey writes, “law dies with it.”

His warnings evoke Orwell’s 1984 and Arendt’s analyses of totalitarianism, where lies engulf reality. Comey portrays this era not as a political rivalry but as an existential moral crisis for the republic.

Comey ends with guarded optimism. The reservoir can be refilled, he insists, if new leaders follow the model of Edward Levi—the post-Watergate attorney general who rebuilt trust through humility, candor, and personal integrity. “A great leader,” Levi said, “radiates the values of the institution.” That, to Comey, is the blueprint for renewal.

The Path Forward

Reform won’t come from legislation alone. It requires cultural realignment: prosecutors and agents recommitting to transparency; leaders demonstrating nonpartisanship; the public rewarding integrity over tribal loyalty. Accountability must be paired with compassion, and mistakes must be admitted in daylight, not concealed in darkness.

He suggests even symbolic changes—like renaming the FBI headquarters after civil-rights hero John Lewis instead of J. Edgar Hoover—to signal a new moral inheritance. Yet the real challenge lies in moral discipline: whoever leads next must prize truth over revenge, constraint over impulse, service over self-interest.

Comey ends where he began—with truth as the lifeblood of justice. “Tell the American people the truth,” he writes, “about everything.” Every admission, every transparent explanation, every fair action is another drop returning to the reservoir. Only then can justice—and America’s faith in it—be saved.