DDH- High Crimes or High Politics?

Back in the early 1800s, America was still figuring itself out. The Constitution was only a few decades old, and the Founders were still either running the show or not long buried. The country had just survived its first peaceful transfer of power after a bitter election—John Adams, a Federalist, lost to Thomas Jefferson, a Democratic-Republican. It was called the Revolution of 1800, but it had nothing to do with muskets or militias. It was a revolution of ideas and power, and it put Jefferson in charge of a government still packed with his political enemies, especially in the courts.

Producer Note: We had some internet issues this morning. Combined with the new computer not being quite dialed in yet, the audio quality isn’t quite what Dave strives for. Mea culpa.

That is where Samuel Chase came in. Chase was a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a proud Federalist, and by all accounts, a bit of a firebrand. His nickname was “Old Bacon Face,” partly due to his flushed complexion and partly because he had a temper to match. He had spent years on the bench waving the Federalist flag, sometimes a little too loudly. He made no secret of his disdain for Jefferson and his party, and he had a habit of turning courtrooms into platforms for political speeches. For Jefferson and his allies, enough was enough.

The political climate was tense. Jefferson was not just annoyed by the judiciary—he saw it as a serious obstacle. The Supreme Court had just handed down its ruling in Marbury v. Madison, and Chief Justice John Marshall, another die-hard Federalist, had declared that the Court could strike down laws it found unconstitutional. That rattled Jefferson. He believed judges were becoming kings in black robes, answerable to no one and too cozy with the Federalists who had just been thrown out of office.

Jefferson and his allies in Congress decided to do something about it. They had already repealed the Judiciary Act of 1801, which had packed the courts with Federalists during Adams’ final hours. Now they turned their sights on Chase. In March of 1804, the House of Representatives impeached him. The charges were not about bribery or corruption or criminal acts. They were about his behavior on the bench—his political rants, his courtroom conduct during sedition trials, and his refusal to discharge a grand jury in Delaware that would not indict a Republican printer. In other words, they wanted him gone for being too loud, too biased, and too Federalist.

The Senate trial was a national spectacle. Vice President Aaron Burr presided over it. That alone added some drama, since Burr had recently killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel. The Senate, packed with Democratic-Republicans, looked ready to convict. But when it came time to vote, something remarkable happened. They backed away.

The Senators knew that if they convicted Chase, they would be setting a dangerous precedent. Removing a judge for being politically obnoxious, without any actual crime, would tear at the independence of the judiciary. Some of them may not have liked Chase, but they liked the Constitution more. None of the eight articles of impeachment reached the two-thirds majority required for conviction. Chase walked free, and stayed on the bench until his death in 1811.

His acquittal was more than a personal victory. It was a turning point. From that moment on, impeachment would be treated with caution. Judges could still be impeached, but not just for having strong opinions. The bar had been raised, and the Court remained independent, even when unpopular.

Jefferson lost that round, but the country gained something important—a precedent that protects the courts from becoming political battlegrounds every time the winds shift in Washington.

In the end, Samuel Chase’s story is not just about politics. It is about principles. It is about a young nation wrestling with power and restraint, with passion and reason. It is a reminder that the Constitution was designed to endure hot tempers and hard times. And sometimes, keeping that balance means letting a loudmouth judge keep his seat—because the bigger picture matters more.